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THE POETICAL WORKS 



OF 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 




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.-DON.FfiJEDF.HTO: W. 



— — — 



THE LANSDOWNE POETS. 



THE POETICAL WORKS 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 



Inducing Intvobudicm wc& Jtote. 



mm 



WITH ILLUSTRATIONS AND PORTRAIT. 



LONDON : 
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO., 

BEDFORD STREET, STRAND. 



gangan: 

CLAY AND TAYLOR, I'liiNTEBS 



Library of Congress 





2010 534985 



INTRODUCTION 



In the present Edition of Scott will be found the whole of his Poems 
and Dramas ; the only omission being the letter in verse addressed to 
the Duke of Buccleuch, contained in Lockhart's Life of the Poet, vol. ii. 
g. 372, which is still copyright, and was not intended for publication. 

Scott's chequered story is as familiar as his works in almost every 
British household ; nevertheless, whenever the bequest of his genius is 
presented to us in a new form, a few memorial words seem due to him 
who has given so much delight. 

Walter Scott, the son of Walter and Anne Scott, was born at Edin- 
burgh on the 15th of August, 1771. He was of good family, being 
descended from the Scotts of Harden (of the noble race of Buccleuch), 
and was by profession a lawyer, being called to the Scottish Bar in 1792. 
Literature, however, became his real profession. Two translations from 
the German, and some contributions to Lewis's " Tales of Wonder," were 
his first literary productions. These, however, were but the preludes to 
the future " Lay," "The Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border" followed; 
but in 1805 the full swell of the " Harp of the North" was first heard in 
the " Lay of the Last Minstrel." This poem was followed in quick suc- 
cession by " Marmion," " The Lady of the Lake," &c. 

The successful rivalry of Byron, however, turned the poet's thoughts 
towards an even more congenial development of his genius, and, in 18 14, 
he gave the world the first of those wonderful novels, which at once 
placed him near to the throne of Shakspeare himself. 

Fortune showered her favours both on the Poet and Novelist. He was 
created a Baronet, made a large fortune, and lived in a sort of fairy-tale 
prosperity, amidst the scenes of his earliest fancies and affections. 

This prosperity, however, proved evanescent. Scott was a partner in 
the publishing firm of Constable and Ballantyne, and by its failure, in 
1826, he lost everything. Nobly and bravely, however, did the old 
Author struggle to redeem his honest fame, and pay off his liabilities, and 
so well were his labours rewarded that, in 1830, his creditors presented 



INTRODUCTION. 



him with his library, paintings, furniture, plate, and linen, in acknow- 
ledgment of his honourable conduct. In the midst of his pecuniary 
difficulties, Scott's wife— a French lady by birth, Mdlle. Charpentier 
— died. 

Four years afterwards he was seized with apoplexy. His physicians 
ordered him abroad, and a ship of war — the Barham — placed at his dis- 
posal by the Government, conveyed him to Malta and Naples. But the 
change of climate and scene proved of no avail, and yearning for his 
native land, the Poet insisted on returning to Abbotsford. 

His last wish was fulfilled. He gazed once more on his home, and 
surrounded by his children, he fell gently asleep on a golden September 
afternoon ; lulled to that last peaceful slumber by the ripple of his be- 
loved Tweed, which was audible through the open windows of his 
chamber. 

Life " chimed to evensong " early for him. He died at the age of 6r, 
leaving four children, all of whom are since dead; but Scott's name can 
never perish while the language he has enriched remains to preserve the 
works which are the Poet's true representatives. 






CONTENTS. 



The Lay of the Last Minstrel ... 

Marmion 

The Lady of the Lake ... • ... 

The Vision of Don Roderick 

Rokeby 

The Bridal of Triermain; or, the 
Vale of St. John 

The Lord of the Isles 

The Field of Waterloo 

Harold the Dauntless 

Contributions to Minstrelsy of 
the Scottish Border: — 
Thomas the Rhymer 
Glenfinlas; or, Lord Ronald's Coro- 
nach 

The Eve of St. John 

Cadyow Castle 
The Gray Brother 

Ballads, Translated, or Imitated 
from the German, &c. : — 
William and Helen 
The Wild Huntsman 
The Fire-King ... 
Frederick and Alice 
The Battle of Sempach 
The Noble Moringer 
The Erl-King 

Miscellaneous Poems :— 

The Violet 

. To a Lady. With Flowers from a 

Roman Wall 

War-Song of the Edinburgh Light 

Dragoons 
The Bard's Incantation 
Helvellyn 

The Dying Bard 

The Norman Horse-shoe ... 
The Maid of Toro 

The Palmer 

The Maid of Neidpath 

Wandering Willie 

Hunting Song 

Health to Lord Melville ... 

Epitaph designed for a Monument in 

Lichfield Cathedral 

The Resolve 



42 
107 
161 
177 

230 
256 

304 
310 



342 
346 
349 
352 



355 
359 
361 
3 6 4 
365 
368 

371 



372 



373 
373 
374 
375 
375 
376 
376 
377 
377 
378 
378 



380 



Miscellaneous Poems, continued: — 

Prologue to Miss Baillie's Play of the 

Family Legend 
The Poacher 
Song 

The Bold Dragoon 
On the Massacre of Glencoe 
: For a' that an' a' that 
Song for the Anniversary Meeting of 

r the Pitt Club of Scotland 
Lines addressed to Ranald Mac- 
donald, Esq., of Staffa ... 

From Waverley: 

Davie Gellatley's Songs 
w St. Swithin's Chair 
Flora Maclvor's Song 
To an Oak Tree 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief 

of Kintail 
War-Song of Lachlan, High Chief of 

Maclean 
Saint Cloud 
The Dance of Death 
Romance of Dunois 
The Troubadour ... 
Song from the French 
Song on the Lifting of the Banner of 

the House of Buccleuch ... 
Lullaby of an Infant Chief ...« 

From Guy Mauneriug: __ 

"Twist ye, Twine ye " ' 
The Dying Gipsy's Dirge 
The Return to Ulster ... 
Jock of Hazeldean "■*... 
Pibroch of Donald Dhu ... 
Nora's Vow 

Macgregor's Gathering « ... 
Verses to the Czar Alexander 



380 
381 
383 
384 
384 
386 



387 



39o 



39i 
39i 
39i 
393 
394 
394 

394 

395 



395 
395 
396 
396 
397 
397 
398 
399 



From the Antiquary :■ 

Time ... ... ... 399 

Elspeth's Ballad ... ..." 399 

Mottoes ... ... ... 400 

Motto from the Black Dwarf ... 402 

From Old Mortality : 

Major Bellenden's Song ... 402 
Verses found in Bothwell's 

Pocket-book ... .... 402 

Mottoes ... ... ••• 402 



CONTENTS. 



Miscellaneous Poems, continued:— 


PAGE 


Miscellaneous Poems, continued : — 


'AGE 


The Search after Happiness 


403 


Carle, now the King's come 


436 
438 
439 


The Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill ... 


408 


Mottoes from the Fortunes of Nigel 
Mottoes from Peveril of the Penh ... 


The Monks of Bangor's March 
Mottoes from Rob R oy 


40S 
409 


Mr. Kemble j Farewell Address 


409 


From Quentin Dunvard: 




Lines, written for Miss Smith 


410 


Song — County Guy ... 


440 


Epilogue to the Appeal 
Mackrimmon's Lament 
Donald Caird's come again 


411 


Mottoes 


440 


4 II 
412 


From St. Ronau's Well: 




Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine ... 
From the Heart of Mid- Lothian : 


412 


Epilogue 
Mottoes 
Song from Redgaunt let 


441 
442 
442 


Madge Wildfire's Songs 


413 


Lines addressed to Monsieur Alex- 




From the Bride of Lammcrmoor : 




andre ... 


442 


Lucy Ashton's Song ... 


414 


The Death of Keeldar 


443 


Norman the Forester's Song ... 


414 


From the Betrothed: 




Mottoes 


414 


Song — Soldier, Wake ... 


444 


From the Legend of Montrose: 
Annot Lyle's Songs ... 
The Orphan Maid 


415 
415 


Song— The Truth of Woman ... 
Mottoes 
From the Talisman : 


444 
444 


From Ivanhoe : 




Ahriman 

Song of Blondel — The Bloody 


445 


The Crusader's Return 


415 


Vest 


445 


The Barefooted Friar 


416 


Mottoes 


447 


Saxon War-Song 

Rebecca's Hymn 

The Black Knight's Song 

Duet between the Black Knight 


416 

417 

418 


Inscription for the Monument of the 

Rev. G. Scott ... 
The Foray 


448 
448 


and Wamba 


418 


From Woodstock: 




Funeral Hj^mn 


418 


Mottoes 


448 


Mottoes 


419 


Glee for King Charles 


449 


From the Monastery : 




One Hour with thee ... 


449 


Songs of the White Lady of 




From the Fair Maid of Perth : 




Avenel 


419 


Motto 


450 


Songs in Halbert's Second Inter- 




The Lay of Poor Louise 


45o 


view with the White Lady of 




Chant over the Dead ... 


450 


Avenel 


422 


Yes, thou may'st sigh ... 


450 


Border Ballad 


423 


Oh, bold and true 


450 


Mottoes 
Mottoes from the Abbot 


424 
425 


From Anne of Geierstein : 
Mottoes 


451 


From Kenilworth : 




Song of the Judges of the Secret 




Goldthred's Song 


427 


Tribunal ... 


451 


Mottoes 


427 


Mottoes from Count Robert of Paris 


452 


From the Pirate : 




Mottoes from Castle Dangerous ... 


452 


The Song of the Tewpest • ... 


428 


Fragments, of very early date:— 




Claud Halcro's Song ... 


429 


Bothwell Castle ... 


453 


The Song of Harold Harfager ... 


429 


The Shepherd's Tale 


453 


Song of the Mermaids and Mer- 




Cheviot ... 


455 


men 


43° 


The Reiver's Wedding 


455 


Noma's Song 

Claud Halcro and Noma 


430 

43° 


Dramatic Pieces :— 




Song of the Zetland Fisherman 


43 1 


Haltdon Hill : A Dramatic Sketch 




Cleveland's Songs 


432 


from Scottish History 


457 


Claud Halcro's Verses 


432 


Macduff's Cross 


478 


Noma's Incantations ... 
Mottoes 


432 
434 


Auchindrane, or the Ayrshire 
Tragedy 


484 


On Ettrick Forest's Mountains dun 
Farewell to the Muse 


435 
435 
436 


The Doom of Devorgoil 


5i8 


The Maid of Isla 










Appendix : — Notes 


557 



f 



THE 

LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 

Dum relego, scripsisse pucjet ; quia plurima cerno, 
Me quoque, qui feci judice, digna lini. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 

CHARLES, EARL OF DALKEITH 

THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The Poem, now offered to the Public, is intended to illustrate the customs and manners 
which anciently prevailed on the Borders of England and Scotland. The inhabitants, living 
in a state partly pastoral and partly warlike, a?id combining habits of constant depredation 
with the influence of a rude spirit of chivalry, were often en gaged in scenes highly susceptible 
of poetical ornament. As the descriptiofi of scenery and manners was more the object of the 
Author than a combined and regular narrative, the pla?i of the Ancient Metrical Romance 
was adopted, which allows greater latitude, in this respect, than would be consistent with the 
dignity of a regular Poem. The same model offered other facilities, as it permits an oc- 
casional alteration of measiire, which, in some degree, authorizes the change of rhythm in 
the text. The machinery, also, adopted from popular belief would liave seemed puerile in a 
Poem which did not partake of the rudeness of the old Ballad, or Metrical Romance. 

For these reasons, the Poem was put into the mouth of an ancient Minstrel, the last of the 
race, who, as he is supposed to have survived the Revolution, might have caught somewhat of 
the refinement of ?nodem poetry, without losing the simplicity of his original model. The 
date of the Tale itself is about the 7niddle of the sixteenth century, when most of tJie person- 
ages actually flourished. The time occupied by the action is Three Nights and Three Days 

r 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

A Poem of nearly thirty years' standing may be supposed hardly to need an Introduction, 
since, without one, it has been able to keep itself afloat through the best part of a generation. 
Nevertheless, as, in the edition of the Waverley Novels now in course of publication, [1830,] I 
have imposed on myself the task of saying something concerning the purpose and history of 
each, in their turn, I am desirous that the Poems for which I first received some marks of the 
public favour, should also be accompanied with such scraps of their literary history as may be 
supposed to carry interest along with them. Even if I should be mistaken in thinking that the 
secret history of what was once so popular, may still attract public attention and curiosity, it 
seems to me not without its use to record the manner and circumstances under which the present, 
and other Poems on the same plan, attained for a season an extensive reputation. 

I must resume the story of my literary labours at the period at which I broke off in the 
Essay on the Imitation of Popular Poetry, when I had enjoyed the first gleam of public favour, 
by the success of the first edition of the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border. The second edition 
of that work, published in 1803, proved, in the language of the trade, rather a heavy concern. 
The demand in Scotland had been supplied by the first edition, and the curiosity of the English 
was not much awakened by poems in the rude garb of antiquity, accompanied with notes refer- 
ring to the obscure feuds of barbarous clans, of whose very names civilized history was ignorant. 
It was, on the whole, one of those books which are more praised than they are read. 

At this time I stood personally in a different position from that which I occupied when I first 
dipt my desperate pen in ink for other purposes than those of my profession. In 1796, when I 
first published the Translations from Burger, I was an insulated individual, with only my own 
wants to provide for, and having, in a great measure, my own inclinations alone to consult. In 
1803, when the second edition of the Minstrelsy appeared, I had arrived at a period of life 
when men, however thoughtless, encounter duties and circumstances which press consideration 
and plans of life upon the most careless minds. I had been for some time married — was the 
father of a rising family — and, though fully enabled to meet the consequent demands upon me, 
it was my duty and desire to place myself in a situation which would enable me to make honour- 
able provision against the various contingencies of life. 

It may be readily supposed that the attempts which I had made in literature had been un- 
favourable to my success at the Bar. The goddess Themis is, at Edinburgh, and I suppose 
everywhere else, of a peculiarly jealous disposition. She will not readily consent to share her 
authority, and sternly demands from her votaries, not only that real duty be carefully attended 
to and discharged, but that a certain air of business shall be observed even in the midst of total 
idleness. It is prudent, if not absolutely necessary, in a young barrister, to appear completely 
engrossed by his profession ; however destitute of employment he may in reality be, he ought 
to preserve, if possible, the appearance of full occupation. He should, therefore, seem per- 
petually engaged among his law papers, dusting them, as it were ; and, as Ovid advises the fair, 

" Si nullus erit pulvis, tamen excute nullum." 

Perhaps such extremity of attention is more especially required, considering the great number 
of counsellors who are called to the Bar, and how very small a proportion of them are finally 
disposed, or find encouragement, to follow the law as a profession. Hence the number of de- 
serters is so great, that the least lingering look behind occasions a j'oung novice to be set down 
as one of the intending fugitives. Certain it is, that the Scottish Themis was at this time 
peculiarly jealous of any flirtation with the Muses, on the part of those who had ranged them- 
selves under her banners. This was probably owing to her consciousness of the superior attrac- 
tions of her rivals. Of late, however, she has relaxed in some instances in this particular — an 
eminent example of which has been shown in the case of my friend Mr. Jeffrey, who, after long 
conducting one of the most influential literary periodicals of the age, with unquestionable ability, 
has been, by the general consent of his brethren, recently elected to be their Dean of Faculty, 
or President — being the highest acknowledgment of his professional talents which they had it in 
their power to offer. But this is an incident much beyond the ideas of a period of thirty years' 
distance, when a barrister who really possessed any turn for lighter literature, was at as much 
pains to conceal it as if it had in reality been something to be ashamed of; and I could mention 
more than one instance in which literature and society have suffered much loss, that jurisprud- 
ence might be enriched. 

Such, however, was not my case; for the reader will not wonder that my open - interference 
with matters of light literature diminished my employment in the weightier matters of the law. 
Nor did the solicitors, upon whose choice the counsel takes rank in his profession, do me less 
than justice, by regarding others among my contemporaries as fitter to discharge the duty due 
to their clients, than a young man who was taken up with running after ballads, whether Teu- 
tonic or National. My profession and I, therefore, came to stand nearly upon the footing which 
honest Slender consoled himself on having established with Mistress Anne Page ; " There was 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



no great love between us at the beginning, and it pleased Heaven to decrease it on farther ac- 
quaintance." I became sensible that the time was come when I must either buckle myself 
resolutely to the "toil by day, the lamp by night," renouncing all the Delilahs of my imagina- 
tion, or bid adieu to the profession of the law, and hold another course. 

I confess my own inclination revolted from the more severe choice, which might have been 
deemed by many the wiser alternative. As my transgressions had been numerous, my repent- 
ance must have been signalized by unusual sacrifices. I ought to have mentioned, that since my 
fourteenth or fifteenth year, my health, originally delicate, had become extremely robust. From 
infancy I had laboured under the infirmity of a severe lameness, but, as I believe is usually the 
case with men of spirit who suffer under personal inconveniences of this nature, I had, since the 
improvement of my health, in defiance of this incapacitating circumstance, distinguished myself 
by the endurance of toil on foot or horseback, having often walked thirty miles a-day, and rode 
upwards of a hundred, without resting. In this manner I made many pleasant journeys through 

Earts of the country then not very accessible, gaining more amusement and instruction than I 
ave been able to acquire since I have travelled in a more commodious manner. I practised 
most silvan sports also, with some success, and with great delight. But these pleasures must 
have been all resigned, or used with great moderation, had I determined to regain my station at 
the Bar. It was even doubtful whether I could, with perfect character as a jurisconsult, retain 
a situation in a volunteer corps of cavalry, which I then held. The threats of invasion were at 
this time instant and menacing ; the call by Britain on her children was universal, and was 
answered by some, who, like myself, consulted rather their desire than their ability to bear 
arms. My services, however, were found useful in assisting to maintain the discipline of the 
corps, being the point on which their constitution rendered them most amenable to military 
criticism. In other respects, the squadron was a fine one, consisting chiefly of handsome men, 
well mounted and armed at their own expense. My attention to the corps took up a good deal 
of time ; and while it occupied many of the happiest hours of my life, it furnished an additional 
reason for my reluctance again to encounter the severe course of study indispensable to success 
in the juridical profession. 

On the other hand, my father, whose feelings might have been hurt by my quitting the Bar, 
had been for two or three years dead, so that I had no control to thwart my own inclination ; 
and my income being equal to all the comforts, and some of the elegancies, of life, I was not 
pressed to an irksome labour by necessity, that most powerful of motives ; consequently, I was 
the more easily seduced to choose the employment which was most agreeable to me. This was 
yet the easier, that in 1800 I had obtained the preferment of Sheriff of Selkirkshire, about ,£300 
a-year in value, and which was the more agreeable to me, as in that county I had several 
friends and relations. But I did not abandon the profession to which I had been educated, 
without certain prudential resolutions, which, at the risk of some egotism, I will here mention ; 
not without the hope that they may be useful to young persons who may stand in circumstances 
similar to those in which I then stood. 

In the first place, upon considering the lives and fortunes of persons who had given themselves 
up to literature, or to the task of pleasing the public, it seemed to me, that the circumstances 
which chiefly affected their happiness and character, were those from which Horace has be- 
stowed upon authors the epithet of the Irritable Race. It requires no depth of philosophic 
reflection to perceive, that the petty warfare of Pope with the Dunces of his period could not 
have been carried on without his suffering the most acute torture, such as a man must endure 
from musquitoes, by whose stings he suffers agony, although he can crush them in his grasp by 
myriads. Nor is it necessary to call to memory the many humiliating instances in which men 
of the greatest genius have, to avenge some pitiful quarrel, made themselves ridiculous during 
their lives, to become the still more degraded objects of pity to future times. 

Upon the whole, as I had no pretension to the genius of the distinguished persons who had 
fallen into such errors, I concluded there could be no occasion for imitating them in their mis 
takes, or what I considered as such ; and, in adopting literary pursuits as the principal occupa- 
tion of my future life, I resolved, if possible, to avoid those weaknesses of temper which seemed 
to have most easily beset my more celebrated predecessors. 

With this view, it was my first resolution to keep as far as was in my power abreast of society, 
continuing to maintain my place in general company, without yielding to the very natural 
temptation of narrowing myself to what is called literary society. By doing so, I imagined I 
should escape the besetting sin of listening to language, which, from one motive or other, is apt 
to ascribe a very undue degree of consequence to literary pursuits, as if they were, indeed, the 
business, rather than the amusement, of life. The opposite course can only be compared to the 
injudicious conduct of one who pampers himself with cordial and luscious draughts, until he is 
unable to endure wholesome bitters. Like Gil Bias, therefore, I resolved to stick by the society 
of my commts, instead of seeking that of a more literary cast, and to maintain my general 
interest in what was going on around me, reserving the man of letters for the desk and the 
library. 

My second resolution was a corollary from the first. I determined that, without shutting my 
ears to the voice of true criticism, I would pay no regard to that which assumes the form of 



sccrrrs poetical works. 



satire. I therefore resolved to arm myself with that triple brass of Horace, of which those of 
my profession are seldom held deficient, against all the roving warfare of satire, parody, and 
sarcasm ; to laugh if the jest was a good one, or, if otherwise, to let it hum and buzz itself to 
sleep. 

It is to the observance of these rules, (according to my best belief,) that, after a life of thirty 
years engaged in literary labours of various kinds, I attribute my never having been entangled 
in any literary quarrel or controversy ; and, which is a still more pleasing result, that I have 
been distinguished by the personal friendship of my most approved contemporaries of all 
parties. 

I adopted, at the same time, another resolution, on which it may doubtless be remarked, that 
it was well for me that I had it in my power to do so, and that, therefore, it is a line of conduct 
which, depending upon accident, can be less generally applicable in other cases. Yet I fail not 
to record this part of my plan, convinced that, though it may not be in every one's power to 
adopt exactly the same resolution, he may nevertheless, by his own exertions, in some shape 
or other, attain the object on which it was founded, namely, to secure the means of subsistence, 
without relying exclusively on literary talents. In this respect, I determined that literature 
should be my staff, but not my crutch, and that the profits of my literary labour, however 
convenient otherwise, should not, if I could help it, become necessary to my ordinary expenses. 
With this purpose I resolved, if the interest of my friends could so far favour me, to retire upon 
any of the respectable offices of the law, in which persons of that profession are glad to take 
refuge, when they feel themselves, or are judged by others, incompetent to aspire to its higher 
honours. . Upon such a post an author might hope to retreat, without any perceptible alteration 
of circumstances, whenever the time should arrive that the public grew weary of his endeavours 
to please, or he himself should tire of the pen. At this period of my life, I possessed so many 
friends capable of assisting me in this object of ambition, that I could hardly overrate my own 
prospects of obtaining the preferment to which I limited my wishes ; and, in fact, I obtained in 
no long period the reversion of a situation which completely met them. 

Thus far all was well, and the author had been guilt}-, perhaps, of no great imprudence, when 
he relinquished his forensic practice with the hope of making some figure in the field of literature. 
But an established character with the public, in my new capacity, still remained to be acquired. 
I have noticed, that the translations from Burger had been unsuccessful, nor had the original 
poetry which appeared under the auspices of Mr. Lewis, in the "Tales of Wonder," in any 
great degree raised my reputation. It is true, I had private friends disposed to second me in 
my efforts to obtain popularity. But I was sportsman enough to know, that if the greyhound 
does not run well, the halloos of his patrons will obtain nothing for him. 

Neither was I ignorant that the practice of ballad-writing was for the present out of fashion, 
and that any attempt to revive it, or to found a poetical character upon it, would certainly fail 
of success. The ballad measure itself, which was once listened to as to an enchanting melody, 
had become hackneyed and sickening, from its being the accompaniment of every grinding 
hand-organ ; and besides, a long work in quatrains, whether those of the common ballad, or such 
as are termed elegiac, has an effect upon the mind like that of the bed of Procrustes upon the 
human body ; for, as it must be both awkward and difficult to carry on a long sentence from one 
stanza to another, it follows, that the meaning of each period must be comprehended within four 
lines, and equally so that it must be extended so as to fill that space. The alternate dilation 
and contraction thus rendered necessary is singularly unfavourable to narrative composition ; and 
the "Gondibert" of Sir William D'Avenant^ though containing many striking passages, has 
never become popular, owing chiefly to its being told in this species of elegiac verse. 

In the dilemma occasioned by this objection, the idea occurred to the author of using the 
measured short line, which forms the structure of so much minstrel poetry, that it may be 
properly termed the Romantic stanza, by way of distinction ; and which appears so natural to 
our language, that the very best of our poets have not been able to protract it into the verse 
properly called Heroic, without the use of epithets which are, to say the least, unnecessary. 
But, on the other hand, the extreme facility of the short couplet, which seems congenial to our 
language, and was, doubtless for that reason, so popular with our old minstrels, is, for the same 
reason, apt to prove a snare to the composer who uses it in more modern days, by encouraging 
him in a habit of slovenly composition. The necessity of occasional pauses often forces the 
young poet to pay more attention to sense, as the boy's kite rises highest when the train is 
loaded by a due counterpoise. The author was therefore intimidated by what Byron calls the 
"fatal facility" of the octo-syllabic verse, which was otherwise better adapted to bis purpose of 
imitating the more ancient poetry. 

I was not less at a loss for a subject which might admit of being treated with the simplicity and 
wildness of the ancient ballad. But accident dictated both a theme and measure, which decided 
the subject, as well as the structure of the poem. 

The lovely young Countess of Dalkeith, afterwards Harriet, Duchess of Buccleuch, had come 
to the land of her husband with the desire of making herself acquainted with its traditions and 
customs, as well as its manners and history. All who remember this lady will agree, that the 
intellectual character of her extreme beauty, the amenity and courtesy of her manners, the 



THE LA V OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



soundness of her understanding, and her unbounded benevolence, gave more the idea of an 
angelic visitant, than of a being belonging to this nether world ; and such a thought was but 
too consistent with the short space she was permitted to tarry among us. Of course, where all 
made it a pride and pleasure to gratify her wishes, she soon heard enough of Border lore ; among 
others, an aged gentleman of property,* near Langholm, communicated to her ladyship the 
story of Gilpin Horner, a tradition in which the narrator, and many more of that country, were 
firm believers. The young Countess, much delighted with the legend, and the gravity and full 
confidence with which it was told, enjoined on me as a task to compose a ballad on the subject. 
Of course, to hear was to obey ; and thus the goblin story, objected to by several critics as an 
excrescence upon the poem, was, in fact, the occasion of its being written. 

A chance similar to that which dictated the subject, gave me also the hint of a new mode of 
treating it. We had at that time the lease of a pleasant cottage, near Lassvvade, on the 
romantic banks of the Esk, to which we escaped when the vacations of the Court permitted me 
so much leisure. Here I had the pleasure to receive a visit from Mr. Stoddart, (now Sir John 
Stoddart, Judge-Advocate at Malta,) who was at that time collecting the particulars which he 
afterwards embodied in his Remarks on Local Scenery in Scotland. I was of some use to him 
in procuring the information which he desired, and guiding him to the scenes which he wished 
to see. In return, he made me better acquainted than I had hitherto been with the poetic 
effusions which have since made the lakes of Westmoreland, and the authors by whom they 
have been sung, so famous wherever the English tongue is spoken. 

I was already acquainted with the "Joan of Arc, "the "Thalaba," and the "Metrical Ballads" 
of Mr. Southey, which had found their way to Scotland, and were generally admired. But Mr. 
Stoddart, who had the advantage of personal friendship with the authors, and who possessed a 
strong memory, with an excellent taste, was able to repeat to me many long specimens of their 
poetry, which had not yet appeared in print. Amongst others, was the striking fragment called 
Christabel, by Mr. Coleridge, which, from the singularly irregular structure of the stanzas, and; 
the liberty which it allowed the author to adapt the sound to the sense, seemed to be exactly 
suited to such an extravaganza as I meditated on the subject of Gilpin Horner. As applied to 
comic and humorous poetry, this mescolanza of measures had been already used by Anthony 
Hall, Anstey, Dr. Wolcott, and others ; but it was in Christabel that I first found it used in 
serious poetry, and it is to Mr. Coleridge that I am bound to make the acknowledgment due 
from the pupil to his master. I observe that Lord Byron, in noticing my obligations to Mr. 
Coleridge, which I have been always most ready to acknowledge, expressed, or was under- 
stood to express, a hope that I did not write an unfriendly review on Mr. Coleridge's productions. 
On this subject I have only to say, that I do not even know the review which is alluded to ; and 
were I ever to take the unbecoming freedom of censuring a man of Mr. Coleridge's extraordinary 
talents, it would be on account of the caprice and indolence with which he has thrown from him, 
as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like the Torso of antiquity, 
defy the skill of his poetical brethren to complete them. The charming fragments which the 
author abandons to their fate, are surely too valuable to be treated like the proofs of careless 
engravers, the sweepings of whose studios often make the fortune of some painstaking 
collector. 

I did not immediately proceed upon my projected labour, though I was now furnished with a 
subject, and with a structure of verse which might have the effect of novelty to the public ear, 
and afford the author an opportunity of varying his measure with the variations of a romantic 
theme. On the contrary, it was, to the best of my recollection, more than a year after Mr. 
Stoddart's visit, that, by way of experiment, I composed the first two or three stanzas of "The 
Lay of the Last Minstrel." I was shortly afterwards visited by two intimate friends, one of 
whom still survives. They were men whose talents might have raised them to the highest 
station in literature, had they not preferred exerting them in their own profession of the law, in 
which they attained equal preferment. I was in the habit of consulting them on my attempts at 
composition, having equal confidence in their sound taste and friendly sincerity. \ In this 

* This was Mr. Beattie of Mickledale, a man then considerably upwards of eighty, of a 
shrewd and sarcastic temper, which he did not at all times suppress, as the following anecdote 
will show : — A worthy clergyman, now deceased, with better good-will than tact, was en- 
deavouring to push the senior forward in his recollection of Border ballads and legends, by 
expressing reiterated surprise at his wonderful memory. "No, sir," said old Mickledale ; "my 
memory is good for little, for it cannot retain what ought to be preserved. I can remember all 
these stories about the auld riding days, which are of no earthly importance ; but were you, 
reverend sir, to repeat your best sermon in this drawing-room, I could not tell you half an hour 
afterwards what you had been speaking about." 

t One of these, William Erskine, Esq., (Lord Kinnedder,) I have often had occasion to 
mention, and though I may hardly be thanked for disclosing the name of the other, yet I 
cannot but state that the second is George Cranstoun, Esq., now a Senator of the College of 
Justice, by the title of Lord Corehouse. 1831. 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



specimen I had, in the phrase of the Highland servant, packed all that was my own at least, 
for I had also included a line of invocation, a little softened, from Coleridge— 

" Mary, mother, shield us well." 

As neither of my friends said much to me on the subject of the stanzas I showed them before 
their departure, I had no doubt that their disgust had been greater than their good-nature chose 
to express. Looking upon them, therefore, as a failure, I threw the manuscript into the fire, 
and thought as little more as I could of the matter. Some time afterwards I met one of my two 
counsellors, who enquired with considerable appearance of interest, about the progress of -the 
romance I had commenced, and was greatly surprised at learning its fate. He confessed that 
neither he nor our mutual friend had been at first able to give a precise opinion on a poem so 
much out of the common road ; but that as they walked home together to the city, they had 
talked much on the subject, and the result was an earnest desire that I would proceed with the 
composition. He also added, that some sort of prologue might be necessary, to place the mind 
of the hearers in the situation to understand and enjoy the poem, and recommended the adoption 
of such quaint mottoes as Spenser has used to announce the contents of the chapters of the 
Faery Queen, such as — 

"Babe's bloody hands may not be cleansed. 
The face of golden Mean : 
Her sisters two, Extremities, 
Strive her to banish clean." 

I entirely agreed with my friendly critic in the necessity of having some sort of pitch-pipe, which 
might make readers aware of the object, or rather the tone, of the publication. But I doubted 
whether, in assuming the oracular style of Spenser's mottoes, the interpreter might not be 
censured as the harder to be understood of the two. I therefore introduced the Old Minstrel, as 
an appropriate prolocutor, by whom the Lay might be sung or spoken, and the introduction of 
whom betwixt the cantos might remind the reader, at intervals, of the time, place, and circum- 
stances of the recitation. The species of cadre, or frame, afterwards afforded the poem its 
name of "The Lay of the Last Minstrel." 

The work was subsequently shown to other friends during its progress, and received the im- 
primatur of Mr. Francis Jeffrey, who had been already for some time distinguished by his 
critical talent. 

The poem, being once licensed by the critics as fit for the market, was soon finished, proceed- 
ing at about the rate of a canto per week. There was, indeed, little occasion for pause or hesita- 
tion, when a troublesome rhyme might be accommodated by an alteration of the stanza, or where 
an incorrect measure might be remedied by a variation of the rhyme. It was finally published 
in 1805, and may be regarded as the first work in which the writer, who has been since so 
voluminous, laid his claim to be considered as an original author. 

The book was published by Longman and Company, and Archibald Constable and Company. 
The principal of the latter firm was then commencing that course of bold and liberal industry 
which was of so much advantage to his country, and might have been so to himself, but for 
causes which it is needless to enter into here. The work, brought out on the usual terms of 
division of profits between the author and publishers, was not long after purchased by them for 
^500, to which Messrs. Longman and Company afterwards added ^100, in their own unsolicited 
kindness, in consequence of the uncommon success of the work. It was handsomely given to 
supply the loss of a fine horse, which broke down suddenly while the author was riding with one 
of the worthy publishers. 

It would be great affectation not to own frankly, that the author expected some success from 
"The Lay of the Last Minstrel." The attempt to return to a more simple and natural style 
of poetry was likely to be welcomed, at a time when the public had become tired of heroic 
hexameters, with all the buckram and binding which belong to them of later days. But what- 
ever might have been his expectations, whether moderate or unreasonable, the result left them 
far behind, for among those who smiled on the adventurous Minstrel, were numbered the great 
names of William Pitt and Charles Fox. Neither was the extent of the sale inferior to the 
character of the judges who received the poem with approbation. Upwards of thirty thousand 
copies of the Lay were disposed of by the trade ; and the author had to perform a task difficult 
to human vanity, when called upon to make the necessary deductions from his own merits, in a 
calm attempt to account for his popularity. 

A few additional remarks on the author's literary attempts after this period, will be found in 
the introduction to the Poem of Marmion. 

Abbotsford, Aj>ril, 1830. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



INTRODUCTION. 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The Minstrel was infirm and old ; 
His wither'd cheek, and tresses gray, 
Seem'd to have known a better day ; 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 
Was carried by an orphan boy. 
The last of all the Bards was he, 
Who sung of Border chivalry ; 
For, welladay ! their date was fled, 
His tuneful brethren all were dead ; 
And he, neglected and oppress'd, 
Wish'd to be with them, and at rest. 
No more on prancing palfrey borne, 
He caroll'd, light as lark at morn ; 
No longer courted and caress'd, 
High placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
He pour'd, to lord and lady gay, 
The unpremeditated lay : 
Old times were changed, old mannersgone; 
A stranger fill'd the Stuarts' throne ; 
The bigots of the iron time 
Had call'd his harmless art. a crime. 
A wandering Harper, scorn'd and poor, 
He begg'd his bread from door to door. 
And tuned, to please a peasant's ear, 
The harp, a king had loved to hear. 

He pass'd where Newark's* stately 
tower 
Looks out from Yarrow's birchen bower : 
The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye — 
No humbler resting-place was nigh, 
With hesitating step at last, 
The embattied portal arch he pass'd, 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft roll'd back the tide of war, 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 



* Newark's stately tower. A ruined tower 
now ; situated three miles from Selkirk, on the 
banks of the Yarrow. 



The Duchess + mark'd his weary pace,' 
His timid mien, and reverend face, 
And bade her page the menials tell, 
That they should tend the old man well : 
For she had known adversity, 
Though born in such a high degree ; 
In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, 
Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb 1 

When kindness had his wants supplied, 
And the old man was gratified, 
Began to rise his minstrel pride : 
And he began to talk anon, 
Of good Earl Francis, X dead and gone, 
And of Earl Walter, § rest him, God! 
A braver ne'er to battle rode ; 
And how full many a tale he knew, 
Of the old warriors of Buccleuch : 
And, would the noble Duchess deign 
To listen to an old man's strain, 
Though stiff his hand, his voice though 

weak, 
He thought even yet, the sooth to speak, 
That, if she loved the harp to hear, 
He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtain'd ; 
The aged Minstrel audience gain'd. 
But, when he reach'd the room of state, 
Where she, with all her ladies, sate, 
Perchance he wished his boon denied : 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease, 
Which marks security to please ; 
And scenes, long past, of joy and pain, 
Came wildering o'er his aged brain — 
He tried to tune his harp in vain ! 

t The Duchess. Anne, the heiress of Buc- 
cleuch, who had been married to the unhappy 
Duke of Monmouth, son of Charles II. He was 
beheaded for rebellion against James II. 1685. 

X Earl Francis. The Duchess's late father. 

§ Walter, Earl of Buccleuch, grandfather of 
the Duchess, and a celebrated warrior. 



s 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The pitying Duchess praised its chime, 

And gave him heart, and gave him time, 

Till every string's according glee 

Was blended into harmony. 

And then, he said, he would full fain 

He could recall an ancient strain, 

He never thought to sing again. 

It was not framed for village churls, 

But for high dames and mighty earls ; 

He had play'd it to King Charles the Good, 

When he kept court in Holyrood ; 

And much he wish'd, yet fear'd to try 

The long-forgotten melody. 

Amid the strings his fingers stray'd, 

And an uncertain warbling made, 

And oft he shook his hoary head. 

But when he caught the measure wild, 

The old man raised his face, and smiled ; 

And lighten'd up his faded eye, 

With all a poet's ecstasy ! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along ; 

The present scene, the future lot, 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot : 

Cold diffidence, and age's frost, 

In the full tide of song were lost ; 

Each blank in faithless memory void, 

The poet's glowing thought supplied ; 

And, while his harp responsive rung, 

'Twas thus the Latest Minstrel sung. 



CANTO FIRST. 



The feast was over in Branksome tower, 1 
And the Ladye had gone to her secret 

bower ; 
Her bower that was guarded by word and 

by spell, 
Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — 
Jesu Maria, shield us well ! 
No living wight, save the Ladye alone, 
Had dared to cross the threshold stone. 



The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all ; 

Knight, and page, and household squire, 
Loiter'd through the lofty hall, 

Or crowded round the ample fire : 
The staghounds, weary with the chase, 

Lay stretch'd upon the rushy floor, 
And urged, in dreams, the forest race, 

From Teviot-stone to Eskdale-moor. 



Nine-and-twenty knights of fame 

Hung their shields in Branksome-Hall; a 
Nine-and-twenty squires of name 
Brought them their steeds to bower fronc 
stall ; 
Nine-and-twenty yeoman tall 
Waited, duteous, on them all ; 
They were all knights of mettle true, 
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch. 



Ten of them were sheathed in steel, 
With belted sword, and spur on heel : 
They quitted not their harness bright, 
Neither by day, nor yet by night ; 

They lay down to rest, 

With corslet laced, 
Pillow'd on buckler cold and hard ; 

They carved at the meal 

With gloves of steel, 
And they drank the red wine through the 
helmet barr'd. 

v. 

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men, 
Waited the beck of the warders ten ; 
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight, 
Stood saddled in stable day and night, 
Barbed with frontlet of steel, I trow, 
And with Jedwood-axe at saddlebow ; 3 
A hundred more fed free in stall : — 
Such was the custom of Branksome-Hall, 

VI. 

Why do these steeds stand ready dight ? 

Why watch these warriors, arm'd, by 
night? — 

They watch, to hear the blood-hound bay- 
ing ; 

They watch to hear the war-horn braying ; 

To see St. George's red cross streaming, 

To see the midnight beacon gleaming : 

They watch, against Southern force and 
guile, 
Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's 

powers, 
Threaten Branksome's lordly towers, 

From Warkwork, or Naworth, or merry 
Carlisle. 4 



Such is the custom of Branksome-Hall — 

Many a valiant knight is here ; 
But he, the chieftain of them all, 
His sword hangs rusting on the wall, 
Beside his broken spear. 









THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 9 




Bards long shall tell 


Her lover, 'gainst her father's clan, 




How Lord Walter fell ! s 


With Carr in arms had stood, 7 




When startled burghers fled, afar, 


When Mathouse-burn to Melrose ran, 




The furies of the Border war ; 


All purple with their blood ; 




When the streets of high Dunedin* 


And well she knew, her mother dread, 




Saw lances gleam and falchions redden, 


Before Lord Cranstoun 8 she should wed, 




And heard the slogan's f deadly yell — 


Would see her on her dying bed. 




Then the Chief of Branksome fell. 


XI. 




VIII. 


Of noble race the Ladye came, 




Can piety the discord heal, 


Her father was a clerk of fame, 




Or stanch the death-feud's enmity? 


Of Bethune's line of Picardie : 9 




Can Christian lore, can patriot zeal, 


He learn' d the art that none may name, 




Can love of blessed charity? 


In Padua, far beyond the sea. 10 




No ! vainly to each holy shrine, 


Men said, he changed his mortal frame 




In mutual pilgrimage they drew ; 


By feat of magic mystery ; 




Implored, in vain, the grace divine 


For when, in studious mode, he paced 




For chiefs, their own red falchions slew : 


St. Andrew's cloister'd hall, 




While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 


His form no darkening shadow traced 




While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott, 


Upon the sunny wall ! 1X 




The slaughter'd chiefs, the mortal jar, 


XII. 




The havoc of the feudal war, 




Shall never, never be forgot ! 6 


And of his skill, as bards avow, 






He taught that Ladye fair, 




IX. 


Till to her bidding she could bow 




In sorrow o'er Lord Walter's bier 


The viewless forms of air. 




The warlike foresters had bent ; 


And now she sits in secret bower, 




And many a flower, and many a tear, 


In old Lord David's western tower, 




Old Teviot's maids and matrons lent : 


And listens to a heavy sound, 




But o'er her warrior's bloody bier 


That moans the mossy turrets round. 




The Ladye dropp'd nor flower nor tear ! 


Is it the roar of Teviot's tide, 




Vengeance, deep-brooding o'er the slain, 


That chafes against the scaur's* red side? 




Had lock'd the source of softer woe ; 


Is it the wind that swings the oaks ? 




And burning pride, and high disdain, 


Is it the echo from the rocks ? 




Forbade the rising tear to flow ; 


What may it be, the heavy sound, 




Until, amid his sorrowing clan, 


That moans old Branksome's turrets 




Her son lisp'd from the nurse's knee — 


round ? 




" And if I live to be a man, 






My father's death revenged shall be ! " 


XIIT. 




Then fast the mother's tears did seek 


At the sullen, moaning sound, 




To dew the infant's kindling cheek. 


The ban-dogs bay and howl ; 
And, from the turrets round, 




X. 


Loud whoops the startled owl. 




All loose her negligent attire, 


In the hall, both squire and knight 




All loose her golden hair, 


Swore that a storm was near, 




Hung Margaret o'er her slaughter'd sire, 


And looked forth to view the night ? 




And wept in wild despair : 


But the night was still and clear ! 




But not alone the bitter tear 






Had filial grief supplied ; 


XIV. 




For hopeless love, and anxious fear, 


From the sound of Teviot's tide, 




Had lent their mingled tide ; 


Chafing with the mountain's side, 




Nor in her mother's alter'd eye 


From the groan of the wind-swung oak, 




Dared she to look for sympathy. 


From the sullen echo of the rock, 
From the voice of the coming storm, 
The Ladye knew it well ! 




* Edinburgh. 




t The war-cry, or gathering word, of a 






Border clan. 


t A steep embankment. 











IO 



scorrs poetical works. 



It was the Spirit of the Flood that spoke, 
And he call'd on the Spirit of the Fell. 



RIVER SPIRIT. 

" Sleep 'st thou, brother ! " — 

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

— " Brother, nay — 
On my hills the moon-beams play. 
From Craik-cross to Skelfhill-pen, 
By every rill, in every glen, 

Merry elves their morris pacing, 

To aerial minstrelsy, 
Emerald rings on brown heath tracing, 

Trip it deft and merrily. 
Up, and mark their nimble feet ! 
Up, and list their music sweet ! " — 

XVI. 
RIVER SPIRIT. 

' ' Tears of an imprison'd maiden 
Mix with my polluted stream ; 

Margaret of Branksome, sorrow-laden, 
Mourns beneath the moon's pale beam. 

Tell me, thou, who view'st the stars, 

When shall cease these feudal jars ? 

What shall be the maiden's fate ? 

Who shall be the maiden's mate?" 

XVII. 

MOUNTAIN SPIRIT. 

" Arthur's slow wain his course doth roll, 
In utter darkness round the pole ; 
The Northern Bear loweis black and grim ; 
Orion's studded belt is dim ; 
Twinkling faint, and distant far, 
Shimmers through mist each planet star ; 

111 may I read their high decree ! 
But no kind influence deign they shower 
On Teviot's tide, and Branksome's tower, 

Till pride be quell'd, and love be free." 

XVIII. 

The unearthly voices ceast, 

And the heavy sound was still ; 
It died on the river's breast, 

It died on the side of the hill. 
But round Lord David's tower 

The sound still floated near ; 
For it rung in the Ladye's bower, 

And it rung in the Ladye's ear. 
She raised her stately head, 

And her heart throbb'd high with 
pride : — 
"Your mountains shall bend, 

And your streams ascend, 
Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride 1 " 



The Lady sought the lofty hall, 

Where many a bold retainer lay, 
And, with jocund din, among them all, 

Her son pursued his infant play. 
A fancied moss-trooper,* the boy 

The truncheon of a spear bestrode, 
And round the hall, right merrily, 

In mimic foray rode, 
Even bearded knights, in arms grown old, 

Share in his frolic gambols bore, 
Albeit their hearts, of rugged mould, 

Were stubborn as the steel they wore. 
For the gray warriors prophesied 

How the brave boy, in future war, 
Should tame the Unicprn's pride.f 

Exalt the Crescent and the Star.J 

XX. 

The Ladye forgot her purpose high, 

One moment, and no more ; 
One moment gazed with a mother's eye, 

As she paused at the arched door : 
Then from amid the armed train, 
She call'd to her William of Deloraine. 

XXI. 

A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, 
As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee ; 
Through Solway sands, through Tarras 

moss, 
Blindfold, he knew the paths to cross ; 
By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 
Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds ; " 
In Eske or Liddel, fords were none, 
But he would ride them, one by one ; 
Alike to him was time or tide, 
December's snow, or July's pride ; 
Alike to him was tide or time, 
Moonless midnight, or matin prime ; 
Steady of heart, and stout of hand, 
As ever drove prey from Cumberland ; 
Five times outlaw'd had he been, 
By England's King, and Scotland's Queen. 

- XXII. 
"Sir William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Mount thee on the wightest steed ; 

* Moss-trooper, a borderer, whose profes- 
sion was pillage of the English. These ma- 
rauders were called moss-troopers because they 
dwelt in the mosses, and rode, on their in- 
cursions, in troops. 

t The Unicorn Head was the crest of the 
Carrs, or Kerrs, of Cessford, the enemies of 
the child's late father. 

\ The Crescent and the Star were armorial 
bearings of the Scotts of Buccleuch. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



ii 



Spare not to spur, nor stint to ride, 
Until thou come to fair Tweedside ; 
1 And in Melrose's holy pile 
| Seek thou the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 
Greet the Father well from me ; 

Say that the fated hour is come, 

And to-night he shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb ; 

For this will be St. Michael's night, 

And, though the stars be dim, the moon is 

bright ; 
And the Cross, of bloody red, 

iWill point to the grave of the mighty dead. 
XXIII. 
" What he gives thee, see thou keep ; 
Stay not thou for food or sleep ; 
Be it scroll, or be it book, 
Into it, Knight, thou must not look ; 
If thou readest, thou art lorn ! 
Better hadst thou ne'er been born." — 

XXIV. 

" O swiftly can speed my dapple-gray steed, 

Which drinks of the Teviot clear ; 
Ere break of day," the Warrior 'gan say, 

"Again will I be here : 
And safer by none may thy errand be done, 

Than, noble dame, by me ; 
Letter nor line know I never a one, 

Wer't my neck-verse at Hairibee." * 

XXV. 

Soon in his saddle sate he fast, 
And soon the steep descent he past, 
Soon cross'd the sounding barbican ,f 
And soon the Teviot side he won. 
Eastward the wooded path he rode, 
Green hazels o'er his basnet nod ; . 
He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland.J 
r And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring 

strand^; 
Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound, 
Where Druid shades still flitted round ; 
In Hawick twinkled many a light ; 
Behind him soon they set in night ; 



* Hairibee, the place on Carlisle wall where 
the moss-troopers, if caught, were hung. The 
neck-verse was the first verse of Psalm 51. 
If a criminal claimed on the scaffold "benefit 
of his clergy," a priest instantly presented him 
with a Psalter, and he read his neck-verse. 
The power of reading it entitled him to his 
life, which was spared ; but he was banished 
the kingdom. See Palgrave's " Merchant and 
Friar." 

t Barbican, the defence of the outer gate of 
a feudal castle. 

X Peel, a Border tower. 



And soon he spurr'd his courser keen 
Beneath the tower of Hazeldean. 

XXVI. 

The clattering hoofs the watchmen 

mark ; — 
"Stand, ho ! thou courier of the dark." — 
" For Branksome, ho!" the knight rejoin'd, 
And left the friendly tower behind. 
He turn'd him now from Teviotside, 

And, guided by the tinkling rill, 
Northward the dark ascent did ride, 

And gain'd the moor at Plorsliehill ; 
Broad on the left before him lay, 
For many a mile, the Roman way.§ 

xxvi r. 
A moment now he slack'd his speed, 
A moment breathed his panting steed ; 
Drew saddle-girth and corslet band, 
And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. 
On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, 
Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint ; 
Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, 
Where falcons hang their giddy nest, 
Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye 
For many a league his prey could spy ; 
Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, 
The terrors of the robber's horn ? 
Cliffs, which, for many a later year, 
The warbling Doric reed shall hear, ' 
When some sad swain shall teach the grove, 
Ambition is no cure for love ! 

XXVIII. 

Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, 
To ancient Riddel's fair domain, 

Where Aill, from mountains freed, 
Down from the lakes did raving come ; 
Each wave was crested with tawny foam, 

Like the mane of a chestnut steed. 
In vain ! no torrent, deep or broad, 
Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. 

XXIX. 

At the first plunge the horse sunk low, 
And the water broke o'er the saddlebow ; 
Above the foaming tide, I ween, 
Scarce half the charger's neck was seen ; 
For he was barded || from counter to tail, 
And the rider was armed complete in mail ; 
Never heavier man and horse 
Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. 



§ An ancient Roman road, crossing through 
part of Roxburghshire. 

|| Barded, or barbed, applied to a horse ac- 
coutred with defensive armour. 



12 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORK'S. 



The warrior's very plume, I say, 
Was daggled by the dashing spray ; 
Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's 

grace, 
At length he gain'd the landing-place. 



Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, 

And sternly shook his plumed head, 
As glanced his eye o'er Halidon ;* 
For on his soul the slaughter red 
Of that unhallow'd morn arose, 
When first the Scott and Carr were foes ; 
When royal James beheld the fray, 
Prize to the victor of the day ; 
When Home and Douglas, in the van, 
Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, 
Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear 
Reek'd on dark Elliot's Border spear. 



In bitter mood he spurred fast, 
And soon the hated heath was past ; 
And far beneath, in lustre wan, 
Old Melros' rose, and fair Tweed ran : 
Like some tall rock with lichens gray, 
Seem'd dimly huge, the dark Abbaye. 
When Hawick he pass'd, had curfew rung, 
Now midnight lauds f were in Melrose 

sung. 
The sound, upon the fitful gale, 
In solemn wise did rise and fail, 
Like that wild harp, whose magic tone 
Is waken' d by the winds alone. 
But when Melrose he reach'd, 'twas silence 

all; 
He meetly stabled his steed in stall, 
And sought the convent's lonely wall. I3 



Here paused the harp ; and with its swell 
The Master's fire and courage fell ; 
Dejectedly, and low, he bow'd, 
And, gazing timid on the crowd, 
He seem'd to seek, in every eye, 
If they approved his minstrelsy ; 
And, diffident of present praise, 
Somewhat he spoke of former days, 
And how old age, and wand'ring long, 
Had done his hand and harp some wrong. 
The Duchess, and her daughters fair, 
And every gentle lady there, 



* Halidon was an ancient seat of the Kerrs 
of Cessford, now demolished. 

t Lauds, the midnight service of the Catholic 
church. 



Each after each, in due degree, 
Gave praises to his melody ; 
His hand was true, his voice was clear, 
And much they long'd the rest to hear. 
Encouraged thus, the Aged Man, 
After meet rest, again began. 



CANTO SECOND. 



If thou would'stview fair Melrose aright, 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 
For the gay beams of lightsome day 
Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray. 
When the broken arches are black in night, 
And each shafted oriel glimmers white ; 
When the cold light's uncertain shower 
Streams on the ruin'd central tower ; 
When buttress and buttress, alternately, 
Seem framed of ebon and ivory ; 
When silver edges the imagery, 
And the scrolls that teach thee to live and 

die ; ** 
When distant Tweed is heard to rave, 
And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's 

grave, 
Then go — but go alone the while — 
Then view St. David's ruin'd pile ; 
And, home returning, soothly swear, 
Was never scene so sad and fair ! 

n. 
Short halt did Deloraine make there ; 
Little reek'd he of the scene so fair ; 
With dagger's hilt, on the wicket strong, 
He struck full loud, and struck full long. 
The porter hurried to the gate — 
"Who knocks so loud, and knocks so 

late?" 
" From Branksome I," the warrior cried ; 
And straight the wicket open'd wide : 
ForBranksome's Chiefs had in battle stood, 

To fence the rights of fair Melrose ; 
And lands and livings, many a rood, 

Had gifted the shrine for their souls' 
repose. 

ill. 
Bold Deloraine his errand said ; 
The porter bent his humble head ; 
With torch in hand, and feet unshod, 
And noiseless step, the path he trod, 
The arched cloister, far and wide, 
Rang to the warrior's clanking stride, 
Till, stooping low his lofty crest, 
He enter'd the cell of the ancient priest, 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



*3 



And lifted his barred aventayle,* 
To hail the Monk of St. Mary's aisle. 

IV. 

«' The Ladye of Branksome greets thee by 
me, 

Says, that the fated hour is come, 
And that to-night I shall watch with thee, 

To win the treasure of the tomb." 
From sackcloth couch the Monk arose, 

With toil his stiffen'd limbs he rear'd ; 
A hundred years had flung their snows 

On his thin locks and floating beard. 

v. 
And strangely on the Knight look'd he, 

And his blue eyes gleam'd wild and wide; 
"And, darest thou, Warrior ! seek to see 

What heaven and hell alike would hide ? 
My breast, in belt of iron pent, 

With shirt of hair and scourge of thorn ; 
For threescore years, in penance spent, 

My knees those flinty stones have worn : 
Yet all too little to atone 
For knowing what should ne'er be known. 

Would'st thou thy every future year 
In ceaseless prayer and penance drie, 

Yet wait thy latter end with fear — 
Then, daring Warrior, follow me ! " — 



" Penance, father, will I none ; 

Prayer know I hardly one ; 

For mass or prayer can I rarely tarry, 

Save to patter an Ave Mary, 

When I ride on a Border foray. 

Other prayer can I none ; 

So speed me my errand, and let me be 
gone." — 

vir. 

Again on the Knight look'd the Church- 
man old, 
And again he sighed heavily ; 

For he had himself been a warrior bold, 
And fought in Spain and Italy. 

And he thought on the days that were long 
since by, 

When his limbs were strong, and his 
courage was high : — 

Now, slow and faint, he led the way, 

Where, cloister' d round, the garden lay ; 

The pillar'd arches were over their head, 

And beneath their feet were the bones of 
the dead. 



* Aventayle, visor of the helmet. 



Spreading herbs, and flowerets bright, 
Glisten'd with the dew of night ; 
Nor herb, nor floweret, glisten'd there, 
But was carved in the cloister-arches as fair. 
The monk gazed long on the lovely 
moon, 
Then into the night he looked forth ; 
And red and bright the streamers light 
Were dancing in the glowing north. 
So had he seen, in fair Castille, 

The youth in glittering squadrons 
start ; 
Sudden the flying jennet wheel, 
And hurl the unexpected dart. 
He knew, by the streamers that shot so 

bright. 
That spirits were riding the northern light. 



By a steel-clenched postern door, 

They enter'd now the chancel tall ; 
The darken' d roof rose high aloof 

On pillars lofty and light and small : 
The key-stone, that lock'd each ribbed 

aisle, 
Was a fleur-de-lys, or a quatre-feuille ; 
The corbells were carved grotesque and 

grim ; 
And the pillars, with cluster'd shafts so 

trim, 
With base and with capital flourish'd 

around, 
Seem'd bundles of lances which garlands 

had bound. 

x. 

Full many a scutcheon and banner riven, 
Shook to the cold night-wind of heaven, 

Around the screened altar's pale ; 
And there the dying lamps did burn, 
Before thy low and lonely urn, 
O gallant Chief of Otterburne ! * 5 

And thine, dark Knight of Liddesdale! r<3 
O fading honours of the dead ! 
O high ambition, lowly laid ! 



The moon on the east oriel shone 
Through slender shafts of shapely stone, 

By foliaged tracery combined ; 
Thou wouldst have thought some fairy's 

hand 
'Twixt poplars straight the ozier wand, 

In many a freakish knot, had twined ; 



14 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Then framed a spell, when the work was 

done, 
And changed the willow-wreaths to stone. 
The silver light, so pale and faint, 
Show'd many a prophet, and many a saint, 

Whose image on the glass was dyed ; 
Full in the midst, his Cross of Red 
Triumphant Michael brandished, 

And trampled the Apostate's pride. 
The moon-beam kiss'd the holy pane, 
And threw on the pavement a bloody stain. 

xil. 
They sate them down on a marble stone, 

(A Scottish monarch slept below ;)* 
Thus spoke the Monk, in solemn tone : — 

" I was not always a man of woe ; 
For Paynim countries I have trod, 
And fought beneath the Cross of God : 
Now, strange to my eyes thine arms ap- 
pear, 
And their iron clang sounds strange to my 
ear. 

XIII. 
" In these far climes it was my lot 
To meet the wondrous Michael Scott, 17 

A wizard, of such dreaded fame, 
That when, in Salamanca's cave, 
Him listed his magic wand to wave, 

The bells would ring in Notre Dame ! 
Some of his skill he taught to me ; 
And, Warrior, I could say to thee 
The words that cleft Eildon hills in three,* 8 
And bridled the Tweed with a curb of 
stone : 
But to speak them were a deadly sin ; 
And for having but thought them my heart 
within, 
A treble penance must be done. 

XIV. 

" When Michael lay on his dying bed, 
His conscience was awakened : 
He bethought him of his sinful deed, 
And he gave me a sign to come with speed ; 
I was in Spain when the morning rose, 
But I stood by his bed ere evening close. 
The words may not again be said, 
That he spoke to me, on death-bed laid ; 
They would rend this Abbaye's massy nave, 
And pile it in heaps above his grave. 



" I swore to bury his Mighty Book, 
That never mortal might therein look 

* Alexander II. 



And never to tell where it was hid, 
Save at his Chief of Branksome's need : 
And when that need was past and o'er, 
Again the volume to restore. 
I buried him on St. Michael's night, 
When the bell toll'd one, and the moon 

was bright, 
And I dug his chamber among the dead, 
When the floor of the chancel was stained 

red, 
That his patron's cross might over him 

wave, 
And scare the fiends from the Wizard's 

grave. 

XVI. 

" It was a night of woe and dread, 
When Michael in the tomb I laid ! 
Strange sounds along the chancel pass'd, 
The banners waved without a blast ; " — 
— Still spoke the Monk, when the bell 

toll'd one ! — 
I tell you, that a braver man 
Than William of Deloraine, good at need, 
Against a foe ne'er spurr'd a steed ; 
Yet somewhat was he chill'd with dread, 
And his hair did bristle upon his head. 

XVII. 

" Lo, Warrior ! now, the Cross of Red 
Points to the grave of the mighty dead ; 
Within it burns a wondrous light, 
To chase the spirits that love the night : 
That lamp shall burn unquenchably, 
Until the eternal doom shall be."f — 
Slow moved the Monk to the broad flag- 
stone, 
Which the bloody Cross was traced upon ; 
He pointed to a secret nook ; 
An iron bar the Warrior took ; 
And the Monk made a sign with his 

wither' d hand, 
The grave's huge portal to expand. 

XVIII. 

With beating heart to the task he went ; 
His sinewy frame o'er the grave-stone bent ; 
With bar of iron heaved amain, 
Till the toil-drops fell from his brows, like 

rain. 
It was by dint of passing strength, 
That he moved the massy stone at length. 
I would you had been there, to see 
How the light broke forth so gloriously, 



t It was a belief of the Middle Ages, that 
eternal lamps were to be found burning in 
ancient sepulchres. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



'5 



Stream'd upward to the chancel roof, 
And through the galleries far aloof ! 
No earthly flame blazed e'er so bright : 
It shone like heaven's own blessed light, 

And, issuing from the tomb, 
Show'd the "Monk's cowl, and visage 

pale, 
Danced on the dark-brow' d Warrior's 
mail, 

And kiss'd his waving plume. 



Before their eyes the Wizard lay, 
As if he had not been dead a day. 
His hoary beard in silver roll'd, 
He seem'd some seventy winters old ; 

A palmer's amice wrapp'd him round, 

With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 
Like a pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 

His left hand held his Book of Might ; 

A silver cross was in his right ; 
The lamp was placed beside his knee ; 
High and majestic was his look, 
At which the fellest fiends had shook, 
And all unruffled was his face : 
They trusted his soul had gotten grace. 



Often had William of Deloraine 
Rode through the battle's bloody plain, 
And trampled down the warriors slain, 

And neither known remorse nor awe ; 
Yet now remorse and awe he own'd ; 
His breath came thick, his head swam 
round, 

When this strange scene of death he saw, 
Bewilder'd and unnerved he stood, 
And the priest pray'd fervently and loud : 
With eyes averted prayed he ; 
He might not endure the sight to see, 
Of the man he had loved so brotherly. 



And when the priest his death-prayer had 

pray'd, 
Thus unto Deloraine he said : — 
" Now, speed thee what thou hast to do, 
Or, Warrior, we may dearly rue ; 
For those, thou may'st not look upon, 
Are gathering fast round the yawning 

stone ! " — 
Then Deloraine, in terror, took 
From the cold hand the Mighty Book, 
With iron clasp'd, and with iron bound : 
He thought, as he took it, the dead man 

frown' d ; 



But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
Perchance, had dazzled the warrior's sight. 



When the huge stone sunk o'er the tomb, 
The night return'd in double gloom ; 
For the moon had gone down, and the 

stars were few ; 
And, as the Knight and Priest withdrew, 
With wavering steps and dizzy brain, 
They hardly might the postern gain. 
'Tis said, as through the aisles they pass'd, 
They heard strange noises on the blast ; 
And through the cloister-galleries small, 
Which at mid-height thread the chancel 

wall, 
Loud sobs, and laughter louder, ran, 
And voices unlike the voice of man ; 
As if the fiends kept holiday, 
Because these spells were brought to day, 
I cannot tell how the truth may be ; 
I say the tale as 'twas said to me. 



" Now, hie thee hence," the Father said, 
"And when we are on death-bed laid, 
O may our dear Ladye, and sweet St. 

John, 
Forgive our souls for the deed we have 
done ! " • 
The Monk return'd him to his cell, 

And many a prayer and penance sped ; 
When the convent met at the noontide 
bell— 
The Monk of St. Mary's aisle was 
dead ! 
Before the cross was the body laid, 
With hands clasp'd fast, as if still he 
pray'd. 

XXIV. 

The Knight breathed free in the morning 

wind, 
And strove his hardihood to find : 
He was glad when he pass'd the tomb- 
stones gray, 
Which girdle round the fair Abbaye ; 
For the mystic Book, to his bosom prest, 
Felt like a load upon his breast ; 
And his joints, with nerves of iron twined, 
Shook, like the aspen leaves in wind. 
Full fain was he when the dawn of day 
Began to brighten -Cheviot gray ; 
He joy'd to see the cheerful light, 
And he said Ave Mary, as well as he 
might. 



i6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXV. 

The sun had brighten'd Cheviot gray, 

The sun had brighten'd the Carter's* 
side ; 
And soon beneath the rising day 

Smiled Branksome Towers and Teviot's 
tide. 
The wild birds told their warbling tale, 

And waken' d every flower that blows ; 
And peeped forth the violet pale, 

And spread her breast the mountain rose. 
And lovelier than the rose so red, 

Yet paler than the violet pale, 
She early left her sleepless bed, 

The fairest maid of Teviotdale. 



Why does fair Margaret so early awake ? 

And don her kirtle so hastilie ; 
And the silken knots, which in hurry she 
would make, 

Why tremble her slender fingers to tie ; 
Why does she stop, and look often around, 

As she glides down the secret stair ; 
And why does she pat the shaggy blood- 
hound, 

As he rouses him up from his lair ; 
And, though she passes the postern alone, 
Why is not the watchman's bugle blown ? 

XXVII. 

The ladye steps in doubt and dread, 
Lest her watchful mother hear her tread ; 
The lady caresses the rough blood-hound, 
Lest his voice should waken the castle 

round, 
The watchman's bugle is not blown, 
For he was her foster-father's son ; 
And she glides through the greenwood at 

dawn of light 
To meet Baron Henry her own true knight. 

XXVIII. 

The Knight and ladye fair are met, 
And under the hawthorn's boughs are set. 
A fairer pair were never seen 
To meet beneath the hawthorn green. 
He was stately, and young, and tall ; 
Dreaded in battle, and loved in hall : 
And she, when love, scarce told, scarce hid, 
Lent to her cheek a livelier red ; 
When the half sigh her swelling breast 
Against the silken ribbon prest ; 



* A mountain on the Border of England, 
above Tedburgh. 



When her blue eyes their secret told, 
Though shaded by her locks of gold — 
Where would you find the peerless fair, 
With Margaret of Branksome might com- 
pare ! 

XXIX. 

And now, fair dames, methinks I see 

You listen to my minstrelsy ; 

Your waving locks ye backward throw, 

And sidelong bend your necks of snow ; 

Ye ween to hear a melting tale, 

Of two true lovers in a dale ; 

And how the Knight, with tender fire, 
To paint his faithful passion strove ; 

Swore he might at her feet expire, 
But never, never, cease to love ; 
And how she blush' d, and how she sigh'd, 
And, half consenting, half denied, 
And said that she would die a maid ; — 
Yet, might the bloody feud be stay'd, 
Henry of Cranstoun, and only he, 
Margaret of Branksome' s choice should be. 

XXX. 

Alas ! fair dames, your hopes are vain ! 
My harp has lost the enchanting strain ; 

Its lightness would my age reprove : 
My hairs are gray, my limbs are old, 
My heart is dead, my veins are cold ; 

I may not, must not, sing of love. 

XXXI. 

Beneath an oak, moss'd o'er by eld, 
The Baron's Dwarf his courser held, 19 

And held his crested helm and spear : 
That Dwarf was scarce an earthly man, 
If the tales were true that of him ran 

Through all the Border far and near. 
'Twas said, when the Baron a-hunting 

rode, 
Through Reedsdale's glens, but rarely 
trod, 
He heard a voice cry, "Lost! lost! 

lost ! " 
And, like tennis-ball by racket toss'd, 

A leap, of thirty feet and three, 
Made from the gorse this elfin shape, 
Distorted like some dwarfish ape, 
And lighted at Lord Cranstoun's 
knee. 
Lord Cranstoun was some whit dis- 

may'd ; 
'Tis said that five good miles he rade, 
To rid him of his company ; 
But where he rode one mile, the Dwarf 

ran four, 
And the Dwarf was first at the castle door. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



*7 



Use lessens marvel, it is said : 
This elvish Dwarf with the Baron staid ; 
Little he ate, and less he spoke, 
Nor mingled with the menial flock : 
And oft apart his arms he toss'd, 
And often mutter' d " Lost ! lost ! lost ! " 
He was waspish, arch, and litherlie,* 
But well Lord Cranstoun served he : 
And he of his service was full fain ; 
For once he had been ta'en or slain, 

An it had not been for his ministry. 
All between Home and Hermitage, 
Talk'd of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin-Page. 



For the Baron went on Pilgrimage, 
And took with him this elvish Page, 
To Mary's Chapel of the Lowes ; 
For there beside our Ladye's lake, 
An offering he had sworn to make, 

And he would pay his vows. 
But the Ladye of Branksome gather'd a 

band 
Of the best that would ride at her com- 
mand : 
The trysting place was Newark Lee. 
Wat of Harden came thither amain, 
And thither came John of Thirlestane, 
And thither came William of Deloraine ; 
They were three hundred spears and 
three. * 
Through Douglas-burn, up Yarrow stream, 
Their horses prance, their lances gleam. 
They came to St. Mary's lake ere day ; 
But the chapel was void, and the Baron 

away. 
They burn'd the chapel for very rage, 
And cursed Lord Cranstoun's Goblin- 
Page. 

xxxiv. 

And now, in Branksome's good green 

wood, 
As under the aged oak he stood, 
The Baron's courser pricks his ears, 
As if a distant noise he hears. 
The Dwarf waves his long lean arm on 

high, 
And signs to the lovers to part and fly ; 
No time was then to vow or sigh. 
Fair Margaret through the hazel grove, 
Flew like the startled cushat-dove : 
The Dwarf the stirrup held and rein ; 
Vaulted the Knight on his steed amain, 

* Idle. 



And, pondering deep that morning's 

scene, 
Rode eastward through the hawthorns 

green. 



While thus he pour'd the lengthen'd tale 
The Minstrel's voice began to fail : 
Full slyly smiled the observant page, 
And gave the wither' d hand of age 
A goblet crown'd with mighty wine, 
The blood of Velez' scorched vine. 
He raised the silver cup on high, 
And, while the big drop fill'd his eye, 
Pray'd God to bless the Duchess long, 
And all who cheer'd a son of song. 
The attending maidens smiled to see 
How long, how deep, how zealously, 
The precious juice the Minstrel quaff 'd ; 
And he, embolden'd by the draught, 
Look'd gaily back to them, and laugh'd. 
The cordial nectar of the bowl 
Swell' d his old veins, and cheer'd his soul ; 
A lighter, livelier prelude ran, 
Ere thus his tale again began. 



CANTO THIRD. 



i. 



And said I that my limbs were old, 
And said I that my blood was cold, 
And that my kindly fire was fled. 
And my poor wither'd heart was dead, 

And that I might not sing of love ? — 
How could I to the dearest theme, 
That ever warm'd a minstrel's dream, 

So foul, so false a recreant prove ! 
How could I name love's very name, 
Nor wake my heart to notes of flame ! 

II. 

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed ; 

In war, he mounts the warrior's steed ; 

In halls, in gay attire is seen ; 

In hamlets, dances on the green. 

Love rules the court, the camp, the grove ; 

And men below, and saints above ; 

For, love is heaven, and heaven is love. 

III. 

So thought Lord Cranstoun, as I ween, 
While, pondering deep the tender scene, 
He rode through Branksome's hawthorn 
green. 

2 



IS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



But the Page shouted wild and shrill, 

And scarce his helmet could he don, 
When downward from the shady hill 
A stately knight came pricking on. 
That warrior's steed, so dapple-gray, 
Was dark with sweat, and splash' d with 
clay ; 
His armour red with many a stain ; 
He seem'd in such a weary plight, 
As if he had ridden the live-long night ; 
For it was William of Deloraine. 



But no whit weaiy did he seem, 

When, dancing in the sunny beam, 

He mark'd the crane on the baron's crest ; * 

For his ready spear was in his rest. 

L_ Few were the words, and stern and high, 

That mark'd the foemen's feudal 
hate ; 
For question fierce, and proud reply, 

Gave signal soon of dire debate. 
Their very coursers seem'd to know 
That each was other's mortal foe, 
And snorted fire, when wheel'd around, 
To give each knight his vantage-ground. 



In rapid round the Baron bent ; 

He sigh'd a sigh, and pray'd a prayer ; 
The prayer was to his patron saint, 

The sigh was to his ladye fair. 
Stout Deloraine nor sigh'd nor pray'd, 
Nor saint, nor ladye, call'd to aid ; 
But he stoop' d his head, and couch' d his 

spear, 
And spurr'd his steed to full career. 
The meeting of these champions proud 
Seem'd like the bursting thunder-cloud. 

VI. 

Stern was the dint the Borderer lent ! 
The stately Baron backwards bent ; 
Bent backwards to his horse's tail, 
And his plumes went scattering on the 

gale. 
The tough ash spear, so stout and true, 
Into a thousand flinders flew. 
But Cranstoun's lance, of more avail, 
Pierced through, like silk, the Borderer's 

mail ; 



* The crest of the Cranstouns, in allusion t6 
their name, is a crane, dormant, holding a stone 
in his foot, with an emphatic Border motto, 
Thou shalt want ere I want. Arms thus pun- 
ning on the name, are said heraldically to be 
" canting." 



Through shield, and jack, and acton, past, 
Deep in his bosom, broke at last. — 
Still sate the warrior saddle-fast, 
Till, stumbling in the mortal shock, 
Down went the steed, the girthing broke, 
Hurl'd on a heap lay man and horse. 
The Baron onward pass'd his course ; 
Nor knew — so giddy roll'd his brain — 
His foe lay stretch' d upon the plain. 

VII. 

But when he rein'd his courser round, \ 
And saw his foeman on the ground 

Lie senseless as the bloody clay, 
He bade his page to stanch the wound, 

And there beside the warrior stay, 
And tend him in his doubtful state, 
And lead him to Branksome castle-gate : 
His noble mind was inly moved 
For the kinsman of the maid he loved. 
' ' This shalt thou do without delay : 
No longer here myself may stay ; 
Unless the swifter I speed away, 
Short shrift will be at my dying day." 



Away in speed Lord Cranstoun rode ; 

The Goblin Page behind abode ; 

His lord's command he ne'er withstood, 

Though small his pleasure to do good, 

As the corslet off he took, 

The dwarf espied the Mighty Book ! 

Much he marvell'd a knight of pride, 

Like a book-bosom'd priest should ride ; f 

He thought not to search or stanch the 

wound, 
Until the secret he had found. 



The iron band, the iron clasp, 
Resisted long the elfin grasp : 
For when the first he had undone, 
It closed as he the next begun. 
Those iron clasps, that iron band, 
Would not yield to unchristen'd hand, 
Till he smear'd the cover o'er 
With the Borderer's curdled gore ; 
A moment then the volume spread, 
And one short spell therein he read, 
It had much of glamour % might, 
Could make a ladye seem a knight ; 
The cobwebs on a dungeon wall 
Seem tapestry in lordly hall ; 



t Priests were wont to carry their mass- 
book, for burying and marrying, &c, in their 
bosoms. 

X Magical delusion. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



19 



A nut-shell seem a gilded barge, 
A sheeling* seem a palace large, 
And youth seem age, and age seem youth- 
All was delusion, nought was truth. 20 



He had not read another spell, 
When on his cheek a buffet fell, 
So fierce, it stretch'd him on the plain, 
Beside the wounded Deloraine. 
From the ground he rose dismay'd, 
And shook his huge and matted head ; 
One word he mutter'd, and no more, 
' Man of age, thou smitest sore ! " — 
No more the Elfin Page durst try 
Into the wondrous Book to pry ; 
The clasps, though smear'd with Christian 

gore, 
Shut faster than they were before. 
He hid it underneath his cloak. — 
Now, if you ask who gave the stroke, 
I cannot tell, so mot I thrive ; 
It was not given by man alive. 

XI. 

Unwillingly himself he address'd, 
To do his master's high behest : 
He lifted up the living corse, 
And laid it on the weary horse ; 
He led him into Branksome Hall, 
Before the beards of the warders all ; 
And each did after swear and say, 
There only pass'd a wain of hay. 
He took him to Lord David's tower, 
Even to the Ladye's secret bower ; 
And, but that stronger spells were spread, 
And the door might not be opened, 
He had laid him on her very bed. 
Whate'er he did of gramarye, f 
Was always done maliciously ; 
He flung the warrior on the ground, 
And the blood well'd freshly from the 
wound. 

XII. 

As he repass'd the outer court, 

He spied the fair young child at sport ; 

He thought to train him to the wood ; 

For, at a word, be it understood, 

He was always for ill, and never for 

good. 
Seem'd to the boy, some comrade gay 
Led him forth to the woods to play ; 
On the drawbridge the warders stout 
Saw a terrier and lurcher passing out. 



A shepherd's hut. 



t Magic. 



He led the boy o'er bank and fell, 

Until they came to a woodland brook ;~ x 
The running stream dissolved the spell, 

And his own elvish shape he took. 
Could he have had his pleasure vilde, 
He had crippled the joints of the noble 

child ; 
Or, with his fingers long and lean, 
Had strangled him in fiendish spleen ; 
But his awful mother he had in dread, 
And also his power was limited ; 
So he but scowl'd on the startled child, 
And darted through the forest wild ; 
The woodland brook he bounding cross' d, 
And laugh'd, and shouted, "Lost! lost! 
lost ! "— 

XIV. 

Full sore amazed at the wondrous change 

And frighten'd as a child might be, 
At the wild yell and visage strange, 
And the dark words of gramarye, 
The child, amidst the forest bower, 
Stood rooted like a lily flower ; 
And when, at length, with trembling 
pace, 
He sought to find where Branksome 
lay, 
He fear'd to see that grisly face 
Glare from some thicket on his way. 
Thus, starting oft, he journey 'd on, 
And deeper in the wood is gone, — 
For aye the more he sought his way, 
The farther still he went astray, — 
Until he heard the mountains round 
Ring to the baying of a hound. 



And hark ! and hark ! the deep-mouth'd 
bark 

Comes nigher still, and nigher : 
Bursts on the path a dark blood-hound, 
His tawny muzzle track'd the ground, 

And his red eye shot fire. 
Soon as the wilder'd child saw he 
He flew at him right furiouslie. 
I ween you would have seen with joy 
The bearing of the gallant boy, 
When, worthy of his noble sire, 
His wet cheek glow'd 'twixt fear and ire ! 
He faced the blood-hound manfully, 
And held his little bat on high ; 
So fierce he struck, the dog, afraid, 
At cautious distance hoarsely bay'd, 

But still in act to spring ; 



20 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whan dash'd an archer through the glade, 
And when he saw the hound was stay'd, 

He drew his tough bow-string ; 
But a rough voice cried, " Shoot not, hoy ! 
Ho ! shoot not, Edward— Tis a boy ! " 



The speaker issued from the wood, 
And check'd his fellow's surly mood, 

And quell'd the ban-dog's ire : 
He was an English yeoman good, 

And born in Lancashire, 
Well could he hit a fallow-deer 

Five hundred feet him fro ; 
With hand more true, and eye more clear, 

No archer bended bow. 
His coal-black hair, shorn round and close, 

Set off his sun-burn' d face : 
Old England's sign, St. George's cross, 

His barret-cap did grace ; 
His bugle-horn hung by his side, 

All in a wolf-skin baldric tied ; 
And his short falchion, sharp and clear, 
Had pierced the throat of many a deer. 

xvn. 
His kirtle, made of forest green, 

Reach'd scantly to his knee ; 
And, at his belt, of arrows keen 

A furbish'd sheaf bore he ; 
His buckler, scarce in breadth a span, 

No larger fence had he ; 
He never counted him a man, 

Would strike below the knee ; 32 
His slacken'd bow was in his hand, 
And the leash, that was his blood-hound's 
band. 



He would not do the fair child harm, 
But held him with his powerful arm, 
That he might neither fight nor flee ; 
For when the Red-Cross spied he, 
The boy strove long and violently. 
" Now, by St. George," the archer cries, 
"Edward, methinks we have a prize ! 
This boy's fair face, and courage free, 
Show he is come of high degree." — 

XIX. 

" Yes ! I am come of high degeee, 
For I am the heir of bold Buccleuch ; 

And, if thou dost not set me free, 

False Southron, thou shalt dearly rue ! 

For Walter of Harden shall come with 
. speed, 

And William of Deloraine, good at need, 



And every Scott, from Esk to Tweed ; 
And, if thou dost not let me go, 
Despite thy arrows, and thy bow, 
I'll have thee hang'd to feed the crow ! "— 

xx. 

" Gramercy,* for thy good-will, fair boy ! 
My mind was never set so high ; 
But if thou art chief of such a clan, 
And art the son of such a man, 
And ever comest to thy command, 

Our wardens had need to keep good 
order ; 
My bow of yew to a hazel wand, 

Thou' It make them work upon the 
Border. 
Meantime, be pleased to come with me, 
For good Lord Dacre shalt thou see ; 
I think our work is well begun, 
When we have taken thy father's son." 

XXI. 

Although the child was led away, 
In Branksome still he seem'd to stay, 
For so the Dwarf his part did play ; 
And, in the shape of that young boy, 
He wrought the castle much annoy. 
The comrades of the young Buccleuch 
He pinch' d, and beat, and overthrew ; 
Nay, some of them he wellnigh slew. 
He tore Dame Maudlin's silken tire, 
And, as Sym Hall stood by the fire, 
He lighted the match of his bandelier.f 
And wofully scorch'd the hackbuteer.J 
It may be hardly thought or said, 
The mischief that the urchin made, 
Till many of the castle guess'd 
That the young Baron was possess'd ! 

XXII. 

Well I ween the charm he held 
The noble Ladye had soon dispell'd ; 
But she was deeply busied then 
To tend the wounded Deloraine. 
Much she wonder'd to find him lie, 

On the stone threshold stretch'd along; 
She thought some spirit of the sky 
Had done the bold moss-trooper 
wrong ; 
Because, despite her precept dread, 
Perchance he in the Book had read ► 
But the broken lance in his bosom stood, 
And it was earthly steel and wood. 



* Grand merct, thanks. 

t Bandelier, belt for carrying ammunition, 

j Hackbuteer, musketeer. 



— — "— — — 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



21 



XXIII. 
She drew the splinter from the wound, 
And with a cha:m she stanch'd the 
blood ; 
She bade the gash be cleansed and bound ; 

No longer by his couch she stood ; 
But she has ta'en the broken lance, 
And wash'd it from the clotted gore, 
And salved the splinter o'er and o'er.* 
William of Deloraine, in trance, 

Whene'er she turn'd it round and round, 
Twisted as if she gall'd his wound. 
Then to her maidens she did say, 
That he should be whole man and sound, 
Within the course of a night and day. 
Full long she toil'd ; for she did rue 
Mishap to friend so stout and true. 



So pass'd the day — the evening fell, 
'Twas near the time of curfew bell ; 
The air was mild, the wind was calm, 
The stream was smooth, the dew was balm ; 
E'en the rude watchman, on the tower, 
Enjoy' d and bless'd the lovely hour. 
Far more fair Margaret loved and bless'd 
The hour of silence and of rest. 
On the high turret sitting lone, 
She waked at times the lute's soft tone ; 
Touch'd a wild note, and all between 
Thought of the bower of hawthorns green. 
Her golden hair stream'd free from band, 
Her fair cheek rested on her hand, 
Her blue eyes sought the west afar, 
For lovers love the western star. 



Is yon the star, o'er Penchryst Pen, 
That rises slowly to her ken, 
And, spreading broad its wavering light, 
Shakes its loose tresses on the night ? 
Is yon red glare the western star ? — 
O, 'tis the beacon-blaze of war ! 
Scarce could she draw her tighten'd breath, 
For well she knew the fire of death ! 

XXVI. 

The Warder view'd it blazing strong, 
And blew his war-note loud and long, 
Till, at the high and haughty sound, 
Rock , wood, and river rung around. 
The blast alarm'd the festal hall, 
And startled forth the warriors all ; 

* This was called the cure by sympathy. 
Sir Kenelm Digby was wont occasionally to 
practise it. 



Far downward, in the castle-yard, 
Full many a torch and cresset glared ; 
And helms and plumes, confusedly toss'd, 
Were in the blaze half-seen, half-lost ; 
And spears in wild disorder shook, 
Like reeds beside a frozen brook. 

XXVII. 
The Seneschal, whose silver hair 
Was redden'd by the torches' glare, 
Stood in the midst, with gesture proud, 
And issued forth his mandates loud : 
" On Penchryst glows a bale + of fire, 
And three are kindling on Priesthaugh- 
swire ; 

Ride out, ride out, 

The foe to scout ! 
Mount, mount for Branksome, % every'man 
Thou, Todrig, warn the Johnstone clan, 

That ever are true and stout — 
Ye need not send to Liddesdale ; 
For when they see the blazing bale, 
Elliots and Armstrongs never fail. — 
Ride, Alton, ride, for death and life ! 
And warn the Warder of the strife, 
Yourtg Gilbert, let our beacon blaze, 
Our kin, and clan, and friends to raise." 

XXVIII. 

Fair Margaret from the turret head, 
Heard, far below, the coursers' tread, 

While loud the harness rung, 
As to their seats, with clamour dread, 

The ready horsemen sprung : 
And trampling hoofs, and iron coats, 
And leaders' voices, mingled notes, 
And out ! and out ! 
In hasty route, 

The horsemen gallop'd forth ; 
Dispersing to the south to scout, 

And east, and west, and north, 
To view their coming enemies, 
And warn their vassals and allies. 

XXIX. 

The ready page, with hurried hand, 
Awaked the need-fire's § slumbering brand, 

And ruddy blush' d the heaven : 
For a sheet of flame, from the turret high, 
Waved like a blood-flag on the sky, 

All flaring and uneven ; 
And soon a score of fires, I ween, 
From height, and hill, and cliff, were seen; 



t A Border beacon. 

X Mount for Bratiksome was the gathering 
word of the Scotts. 
§ Need-fire, beacon, 



22 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Each with warlike tidings fraught ; 
Each from each the signal caught ; 
Each after each they glanced to sight, 
As stars arise upon the night. 
They gleam' d on many a dusky tarn,* 
Haunted by the lonely earn ; \ 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid ; 23 
Till high Dunedin the blazes saw, 
From Soltra and Dumpender Law ; 
And Lothian heard the Regent's order, 
That all should bownej them for the 
Border. 

,xxx. 
The livelong night in Branksome rang 

The ceaseless sound of steel ; 
The castle-bell, with backward clang, 

Sent forth the larum peal ; 
Was frequent heard the heavy jar, 
Where massy stone and iron bar 
Were piled on echoing keep and tower, 
To whelm the foe with deadly shower ; 
Was frequent heard the changing guard, 
And watchword from the sleepless ward ; 
While, wearied by the endless din, 
Blood-hound and ban-dog yell'd within. 

xxxr. 

The noble Dame, amid the broil, 
Shared the gray Seneschal's high toil, 
And spoke of danger with a smile ; 
Cheer'd the young knights, and council 

sage 
Held with the chiefs of riper age. 
No tidings of the foe were brought, 
Nor of his numbers knew they aught, 
Nor what in time of truce he sought. 

Some said, that there were thousands ten; 
And others ween'd that it was nought 

But Leven Clans, or Tynedale men, 
Who came to gather in black-mail ; § 
And Liddesdale, with small avail, 

Might drive them lightly back agen. 
So pass'd the anxious night away, 
And welcome was the peep of day. 



Ceased the high sound — the listening 

throng 
Applaud the Master of the Song ; 
And marvel much, in helpless age, 
So hard should be his pilgrimage. 

* Tarn, a mountain lake. 

+ Earn, a Scottish eagle. 

j Bowne, make ready. 

§ Protection money exacted by freebooters. 



Had he no friend — no daughter dear, 
His wandering toil to share and cheer ; 
No son to be his father's stay, 
And guide him on the rugged way? 
"Ay, once he had— but he was dead ! ' 
Upon the harp he stoop'd his head, 
And busied himself the strings withal, 
To hide the tear that fain would fall. 
In solemn measure, soft and slow, 
Arose a father's notes of woe. 



CANTO FOURTH, 
i. 

Sweet Teviot ! on thy silver tide 

The glaring bale-fires blaze no more'; 
No longer steel-clad warriors ride 

Along thy wild and willow'd shore ; 
Where'er thou wind'st, by dale or hill, 
All, all is peaceful, all is still, 

As if thy waves, since Time was born, 
Since first they roll'd upon the Tweed, 
Had only heard the shepherd's reed, 

Nor started at the bugle-horn. 



Unlike the tide of human time, 

Which, though it change in ceaseless 
flow, 
Retains each grief, retains each crime 

Its earliest course was doom'd to know ; 
And, darker as it downward bears, 
Is stain'd with past and present tears. 

Low as that tide has ebb'd with me, 
It still reflects to Memory's eye 
The hour my brave, my only boy, 

Fell by the side of great Dundee. || 
Why, when the volleying musket play'd 
Against the bloody Highland blade, 
Why was not I beside him laid ! — 
Enough — he died the death of fame ! 
Enough — he died with conquering Graeme. 

in. 

Now over Border, dale, and fell, 

Full wide and far was terror spread ; 
For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 

The peasant left his lowly shed. 24 
The frighten'd flocks and herds were pent 
Beneath the peel's rude battlement ; 
And maids and matrons dropp'd the tear, 
While ready warriors seized the spear. 



|| Claverhouse, Viscount of Dundee, slain in 
the battle of Killicrankie. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



23 



From Branksome's towers, the watch- 
man's eye 
Dun. wreaths of distant smoke can spy, 
Which, curling in the rising sun, 
Show'd southern ravage was begun. 

IV. 

Now loud the heedful gate-ward cried — 
' ' Prepare ye all for blows and blood ! 
Watt Tinlinn, 25 from the Liddel-side, 

Comes wading through the flood. 
Full oft the Tynedale snatchers knock 
At his lone gate, and prove the lock ; 
It was but last St. Barnabright* 
They sieged him a whole summer night, 
But fled at morning ; well they knew, 
In vain he never twang* d the yew. 
Right sharp has been the evening shower, 
That drove him from his Liddel tower ; 
And by my faith," the gate-ward said, 
" I think 'twill prove a Warden-Raid." f 



While thus he spoke, the bold yeoman 

Enter' d the echoing barbican. 

He led a small and shaggy nag, 

That through a bog, from hag to hag, % 

Could bound like any Billhope stag. 

It bore his wife and children twain ; 

A half-clothed serf § was all their train ; 

His wife, stout, ruddy, and dark-brow'd, 

Of silver brooch and bracelet proud, 

Laugh'd to her friends among the crowd. 

He was of stature passing tall, 

But sparely form'd, and lean withal ; 

A batter'd morion on his brow ; 

A leather jack, as fence enow, 

On his broad shoulders loosely hung ; 

A border axe behind was slung ; 

His spear, six Scottish ells in length, 
Seem'd newly dyed with gore ; 

His shafts and bow, of wondrous 
strength, 
His hardy partner bore. 

VI. 

Thus to the Ladye did Tinlinn show 
The tidings of the English foe : — 
" Belted Will Howard 26 is marching here, 
And hot Lord Dacre 27 with many a spear, 



* St. Barnabas's day, June 11. It is still 
called Barnaby Bright in Hants, from its being 
generally a bright sunshiny day. 

t An inroad commanded by the Warden in 
person. 

X The broken ground in a bog. 

§ Bondsman. 



And all the German hackbut-men, 2 3 
Who have long lain at Askerten : 
They cross'd the Liddel at curfew hour, 
And burn'd my little lonely tower : 
The fiend receive their souls therefor ! 
It had not been burnt this year and 

more. 
Barn-yard and dwelling, blazing bright, 
Served to guide me on my flight ; 
But I was chased the livelong night. 
Black John of Akeshaw, and Fergus 

Graeme, 
Fast upon my traces came, 
Until I turn'd at Priesthaugh Scrogg, 
And shot their horses in the bog, 
Slew Fergus with my lance outright— 
I had him long at high despite : 
He drove my cows last Fastern's night. || 



Now weary scouts from Liddesdale, 
Fast hurrying in, confirm'd the tale ; 
As far as they could judge by ken, 
Three hours would bring to Teviot's 
strand 
Three thousand armed Englishmen — 
Meanwhile, full many a warlike band, 
From Teviot, Aill, and Ettrick shade, 
Came in, their Chief's defence to aid. 
There was saddling and mounting in 
haste, 
There was pricking o'er moor and lea ; 
He that was last at the trysting place 
Was but lightly held of his gaye ladye. 



From fair St. Mary's silver wave, 

From dreary Gamescleugh's dusky 
height, 
His ready lances Thirlestane brave 

Array'd beneath a barmer bright. 
The treasured fleur-de-luce he claims, 
To wreathe his shield, since royal James, 
Encamp' d by Fala's mossy wave, 
The proud distinction grateful gave, 

For faith 'mid feudal jars ; 
What time, save Thirlestane alone, 
Of Scotland's stubborn barons none 

Would march to southern wars ; 
And hence, in fair remembrance worn, 
Yon sheaf of spears his crest has borne ; 
Hence his high motto shines reveal'd — 
•' Ready, aye ready," for the field. 29 

|| Shrove Tuesday, the eve of the great 
Spring fast. 



24 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



An aged Knight, to danger steel'd, 

With many a moss-trooper, came on : 
And azure in a golden field, 
The stars and crescent graced his shield, 

Without the bend of Murdieston. 
Wide lay his lands round Oakwood tower, 
And wide round haunted Castle-Ower ; 
High over Borth wick's mountain flood, 
His wood-embosom'd mansion stood, , 
In the dark glen, so deep below, 
The herds of plunder'd England low ; 
His bold retainers' daily food, 
And bought with danger, blows, and 

blood. 
Marauding chief ! his sole delight 
The moonlight raid, the morning fight ; 
Not even the Flower of Yarrow's charms, 
In youth, might tame his rage for arms ; 
And still, in age, he spurn'd at rest, 
And still his brows the helmet press'd, 
Albeit the blanched locks below 
Were white as Dinlay's spotless snow ; 

Five stately warriors drew the sword 
Before their father's band ; 

A braver knight than Hardens lord 
Ne'er belted on a brand.* 



Scotts of Eskdale, a stalwart band, 

Came trooping down the Todshawhill ; 
By the sword they won their land, 

And by the sword they hold it still. 
Harken, Ladye, to the tale, 
How thy sires won fair Eskdale. — 
Earl Morton was lord of that valley fair, 
The Beattisons were his vassals there.. 
The Earl was gentle, and mild of mood, 
The vassals were warlike, and fierce, and 

rude ; 
High of heart, and haughty of word, 
Little they reck'd of a tame liege lord. 
The Earl into fair Eskdale came, 
Homage and seignory to claim : 
Of Gilbert the Galliard a heriotf he sought, 
Saying, ' ' Give thy best steed, as a vassal 

ought." 
— " Dear to me is my bonny white steed, 
Oft has he help'd me at pinch of need ; 
Lord and Earl though thou be, I trow, 
I can rein Bucksfoot better than thou." 



* This knight was the ancestor of Sir Walter 
Scott. 

t The feudal superior, in certain cases, was 
entitled to the best horse of the vassal, in name 
of Heriot, or Herezeld. 



Word on word gave fuel to fire, 

Till so highly blazed the Beattisons* ire, 

But that the Earl the flight had ta'en, 

The vassals there their lord had slain. 

Sore he plied both whip and spur, 

As he urged his steed through Eskdale 

muir ; 
And it fell down a weary weight, 
Just on the threshold of Branksome gate. 

XI. 

The Earl was a wrathful man to see, 
Full fain avenged would he be, 
In haste to Branksome's Lord he spoke : 
Saying — "Take these traitors to thy yoke ; 
For a cast of hawks, and a purse of gold, 
All Eskdale I'll sell thee, to have and hold ; 
Beshrew thy heart, of the Beattisons' clan 
If thou leavest on Eske a landed man ; 
But spare Woodkerrick's lands alone, 
For he lent me his horse to escape upon." 
A glad man then was Branksome bold, 
Down he flung him the purse of gold ; 
To Eskdale soon he spurr'd amain, 
And with him five hundred riders has 

ta'en. 
He left his merrymen in the mist of the 

hill, 
And bade them hold them close and still ; 
And alone he wended to the plain, 
To meet with the Galliard and all his train. 
To Gilbert the Galliard thus he said :— 
"Know thou me for thy liege-lord and 

head, 
Deal not with me as with Morton tame. 
For Scotts play best at the roughest game. 
Give me in peace my heriot due, 
Thy bonny white steed, or thou shalt rue, 
If my horn I three times wind, 
Eskdale shall long have the sound in 

mind." 

XII. 

Loudly the Beattison laugh'd in scorn ; 
" Little care we for thy winded horn. 
Ne'er shall it be the Galliard's lot, 
To yield his steed to a haughty Scott. 
Wend thou to Branksome back on foot, 
With rusty spur and miry boot." — 
He blew his bugle so loud and hoarse, 
That the dun deer started at fair Craik- 

cross : 
He blew again so loud and clear, 
Through the gray mountain-mist there did 

lances appear : 
And the third blast rang with such a din. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



25 



That the echoes answer'd from Pentoun- 

linn, 
And all his riders came lightly in. 
Then had you seen a gallant shock, 
When saddles were emptied, and lances 

broke ! 
For each scornful word the Galliard had 

said, 
A Beattison on the field was laid. 
His own good sword the Chieftain drew, 
And he bore the Galliard through and 

through : 
Where the Beattison's blood mix'd with 

the rill, 
The Galliard's-Haugh men call it still. 
The Scotts have scatter'd the Beattison 

clan, 
In Eskdale they left but one landed man. 
The valley of Eske, from the mouth to the 

source, 
Was lost and won for that bonny white 

horse. 

XIII. 

Whitslade the Hawk, and Headshaw came, 
And warriors more than I may name ; 
From Yarrow-cleugh to Hindhaugh-swair, 

From Woodhouselie to Chester-glen, 
Troop'd man and horse, and bow and 
spear ; 
Their gathering word was Bellenden. 30 
And better hearts o'er Border sod 
To siege or rescue never rode. 

The Ladye mark'd the aids come in, 
And high her heart of pride arose : 
She bade her youthful son attend, 
That he might know his father's friend, 

And learn to face his foes. 
' ' The boy is ripe to look on war ; 

I saw him draw a cross-bow stiff, 
And his true arrow struck afar 
The raven's nest upon the cliff ; 
The red cross, on a southern breast, 
Is broader than the raven's nest : 
Thou, Whitslade, shalt teach him his 

weapon to wield, 
And o'er him hold his father's shield." 

XIV. 
Well may you think, the wily page 
Cared not to face the Ladye sage. 
He counterfeited childish fear, 
And shriek' d, and shed full many a tear, 
And moan'd and plain'd in manner wild. 

The attendants to the Ladye told, 

Some fairy, sure, had changed the child, 

That wont to be so free and bold. 



Then wrathful was the noble dame ; 
She blush'd blood-red for very shame : — 
" Hence ! ere the clan his faintness view ; 
Hence with the weakling to Buccleuch ! — 
Wat Tinlinn, thou shalt be his guide 
To Rangleburn's lonely side. — 
Sure some fell fiend has cursed our line, 
That coward should e'er be son of 



A heavy task Watt Tinlinn had, 
To guide the counterfeited lad. 
Soon as the palfrey felt the weight 
Of that ill-omen'd elfish freight, 
He bolted, sprung, and rear'd amain, 
Nor heeded bit, nor curb, nor rein. 
It cost Watt Tinlinn mickle toil 
To drive him but a Scottish mile ; 

But as a shallow brook they cross'd, 
The elf, amid the running stream, 
His figure changed, like form in dream, 
And fled, and shouted, ' ' Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! " 
Full fast the urchin ran and laugh'd, 
But faster still a cloth-yard shaft 
Whistled from startled Tinlinn's yew, 
And pierced his shoulder through and 

through. 
Although the imp might not be slain, 
And though the wound soon heal'd again, 
Yet, as he ran, he yell'd for pain ; 
And Watt of Tinlinn, much aghast, 
Rode back to Branksome fiery fast. 

XVI. 

Soon on the hill's steep verge he stood, 
That looks o'er Branksome's towers and 

wood ; 
And martial murmurs, from below, 
Proclaim' d the approaching southern foe. 
Through the dark wood, in mingled tone, 
Were Border pipes and bugles blown ; 
The coursers' neighing he could ken, 
A measured tread of marching men ; 
While broke at times the solemn hum, 
The Almayn's sullen kettle-drum ; 
And banners tall, of crimson sheen, 

Above the copse appear ; 
And, glistening through the hawthorns 
green , 
Shine helm, and shield, and spear. 

XVII. 

Light forayers, first, to view the ground, 
Spurr'd their fleet coursers loosely round ; 



26 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Behind, in close array, and fast, 

The Kendal archers, all in green, 
Obedient to the bugle blast, 
Advancing from the wood were seen. 
To back and guard the archer band, 
Lord Dacre's bill-men were at hand : 
A hardy race, on Irthing bred, 
With kirtles white, and crosses red, 
Array'd beneath the banner tall, 
That stream'd o'er Acre's conquer'd wall ; 
And minstrels, as they march'd in order, 
Play'd " Noble Lord Dacre, he dwells on 
the Border." 



Behind the English bill and bow, 
The mercenaries, firm and slow, 

Moved on to fight, in dark array, 
By Conrad led of Wolfenstein, 
Who brought the band from distant Rhine, 

And sold their blood for foreign pay. 
The camp their home, their law the sword, 
They knew no country, own'd no lord : 
They were not arm'd like England's sons, 
But bore the levin-darting guns ; 
Buff-coats, all frounced andbroider'd o'er, 
And morsin-horns* and scarfs they wore ; 
Each better knee was bared, to aid 
The warriors in the escalade ; 
All, as they march'd, In rugged tongue, 
Songs of Teutonic feuds they sung. 

XIX. 

But louder still the clamour grew, 
And louder still the minstrels blew, 
When, from beneath the greenwood tree, 
Rode forth Lord Howard's chivalry ; 
His men-at-arms, with glaive and spear, 
Brought up the battle's glittering rear, 
There many a youthful knight, full keen 
To gain his spurs, in arms was seen ; 
With favour in his crest, or glove, 
Memorial of his ladye-love. 
So rode they forth in fair array, 
Till full their lengthen' d lines display ; 
Then call'd a halt, and made a stand, 
And cried, ' ' St. George, for merry Eng- 
land ! " 

XX. 

Now every English eye, intent 
On Branksome's armed towers was bent ; 
So near they were, that they might know 
The straining harsh of each cross-bow ; 



Powder flasks. 



On battlement and bartizan 
Gleam'd axe, and spear, and partisan ; 
Falcon and culver, f on each tower, 
Stood prompt their deadly hail to shower ; 
And flashing armour frequent broke 
From eddying whirls of sable smoke, 
Where upon tower and turret head, 
The seething pitch and molten lead 
Reek'd, like a witch's caldron red. 
While yet they gaze, the bridges fall, 
The wicket opes, and from the wall 
Rides forth the hoary Seneschal. 

XXI. 

Armed he rode, all save the head, 

His white beard o'er his breast-plate 

spread ; 
Unbroke by age, erect his seat, 
He ruled his eager courser's gait ; 
Forced him, with chasten'd fire, to prance, 
And, high curvetting, slow advance : 
In sign of truce, his better hand 
Display'd a peeled willow wand ; 
His squire, attending in the rear, 
Bore high a gauntlet on a spear.t 
When they espied him riding out, 
Lord Howard and Lord Dacre stout 
Sped to the front of their array, 
To hear what this old knight should say. 

XXII. 

' ' Ye English warden lords, of you 
Demands the Ladye of Buccleuch, 
Why, 'gainst the truce of Border tide, 
In hostile guise ye dare to ride, 
With Kendal bow, and Gilsland brand, 
And all yon mercenary band, 
Upon the bounds of fair Scotland ? 
My Ladye redes you swith § return ; 
And, if but one poor straw you burn, 
Or do our towers so much molest, 
As scare one swallow from her nest, 
St. Mary ! but we'll light a brand 
Shall warm your hearths in Cumber- 
land." — 

XXIII. 

A wrathful man was Dacre's lord, 
But calmer Howard took the word : 



t Ancient pieces of artillery. 

j A glove upon a lance was the emblem of 
faith among the ancient Borderers, who were 
wont, when any one broke his word, to expose 
this emblem, and proclaim him a faithless 
villain at the first Border meeting. This cere- 
mony was much dreaded. — See Lesley, 

§ Swith, instantly. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



27 



" May't please thy Dame, Sir Seneschal, 
j To seek the castle's outward wall, 
< Our pursuivant-at-arms shall show 
■ Both why we came, and when we go." — 

The message sped, the noble Dame 

To the wall's outward circle came ; 

Each chief around lean'd on his spear, 
j To see the pursuivant appear. 
1 All in Lord Howard's livery dress'd, 

The lion argent deck'd his breast ; 
I He led a boy of blooming hue — 
I O sight to meet a mother's view ! 
, It was the heir of great Buccleuch. 
! Obeisance meet the herald made, 

And thus his master's will he said : — 



11 It irks, high Dame, my noble Lords, 
'Gainst ladye fair to draw their swords : 
But yet they may not tamely see, 
All through the Western Warden ry, 
Your law-contemning kinsmen ride, 
And burn and spoil the Border-side ; 
And ill beseems your rank and birth 
To make your towers a flemens-firth.* 
We claim from thee William of Deloraine, 
That he may suffer march-treason 3I pain. 
It was but last St. Cuthbert's even 
He prick'd to Stapleton on Leven, 
Harried f the lands of Richard Musgrave, 
And slew his brother by dint of glaive. 
Then, since a lone and widow'd Dame 
These restless riders may not tame, 
Either receive within thy towers 
Two hundred of my master's powers, 
Or straight they sound their warrison, % 
And storm and spoil thy garrison : 
And this fair boy, to London led, 
Shall good King Edward's page be bred." 

XXV. 

He ceased— and loud the boy did cry, 
And stretch'd his little arms on high ; 
Implored for aid each well-known face, 
And strove to seek the Dame's embrace. 
A moment changed that Ladye's cheer, 
Gush'd to her eye the unbidden tear ; 
She gazed upon the leaders round, 
And dark and sad each warrior frown'd ; 
Then, deep within her sobbing breast 
She lock'd the struggling sigh to rest ; 
Unalter'd and collected stood, 
And thus replied, in dauntless mood : — 

* An asylum for outlaws, 
t Plundered. \ Note of assault. 



XXVI. 

"Say to your Lords of high emprize, 
Who war on women and on boys, 
That either William of Deloraine 
Will cleanse him, by oath, of march-trea- 
son stain, 
Or else he will the combat take 
'Gainst Musgrave, for his honour's sake. 
No knight in Cumberland so good, 
But William may count with him kin and 

blood. 
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword, 33 
When English blood swell'd Ancram's 

ford ; 33 
And but Lord Dacre's steed was wight, 
And bare him ably in the flight, 
Himself had seen him dubb'd a knight. 
For the young heir of Branksome's line, 
God be his aid, and God be mine ; 
Through me no friend shall meet his doom ; 
Here, while I live, no foe finds room. 
Then, if thy Lords their purpose urge, 

Take our defiance loud and high ; 
Our slogan is their lyke-wake § dirge, 
Our moat, the grave where they shall 
lie." 

XXVII. 

Proud she look'd round, applause to 

claim — 
Then lighten'd Thirlestane's eye of flame ; 

His bugle Wat of Harden blew ; 
Pensils and pennons wide were flung, 
To heaven the Border slogan rung, 

" St. Mary for the young Buccleuch ! " 
The English war-cry answer' d wide, 

And forward bent each southern spear ; 
Each Kendal archer made a stride, 

And drew the bowstring to his ear ; 
Each minstrel's war-note loud was 

blown : — 
But, ere a gray-goose shaft had flown, 

A horseman gallop'd from the rear. 

XXVIII. 

" Ah ! noble Lords ! " he breathless said, 
" What treason has your march betray'd? 
What make you here, from aid so far, 
Before you walls, around you war ? 
Your foemen triumph in the thought, 
That in the toils the lion's caught. 
Already on dark Ruberslaw 
The Douglas holds his weapon-schaw ; || 



§ Watching a corpse all night. 
II Weapon-scha'w — military gathering of a 
chiefs followers, or the army of a county. 



2S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The lances, waving in his train, 
Clothe the dun heath like autumn grain ; 
And on the Liddel's northern strand, 
To bar retreat to Cumberland, 
Lord Maxwell ranks his merry-men good, 
Beneath the eagle and the rood ; 
And Jedwood, Eske, and Teviotdale, 

Have to proud Angus come ; 
And all the Merse and Lauderdale 
Have risen with haughty Home. 
An exile from Northumberland, 

In Liddesdale I've wander'd long ; 
But still my heart was with merry Eng- 
land, 
And cannot brook my country's 
wrong ; 
And hard I've spurr'd all night to show 
The mustering of the coming foe." 



" And let them come ! " fierce Dacre cried; 
" For soon yon crest, my father's pride, 
That swept the shores of Judah's sea, 
And waved in gales of Galilee, 
From Branksome's highest towers dis- 
play* d, 
Shall mock the rescue's lingering aid ! — 
Level each harquebuss on row ; 
Draw, merry archers, draw the bow ; 
Up, bill-men, to the walls, and cry, 
Dacre for England, win or die ! " 



1 ' Yet hear, " quoth Howard, ' ' calmly hear, 
Nor deem my words the words of fear : 
For who, in field or foray slack, 
Saw the blanche lion e'er fall back? 34 
But thus to risk our Border flower 
In strife against a kingdom's power, 
Ten thousand Scots 'gainst thousands 

three, 
Certes, were desperate policy. 
Nay, take the terms the Ladye made, 
Ere conscious of the advancing aid : 
Let Musgrave meet fierce Deloraine 
In single fight, and, if he gain, 
He gains for us ; but if he's cross'd, 
'Tis but a single warrior lost : 
The rest, retreating as they came, 
Avoid defeat, and death, and shame." 



Ill could the haughty Dacre brook 
His brother Warden's sage rebuke ; 
And yet his forward step he staid, 
And slow and sullenly obey'd. 



But ne'er again the Border side 
Did these two lords in friendship ride ; 
And this slight discontent, men say, 
Cost blood upon another day. 

XXXII. 

The pursuivant-at-arms again 

Before the castle took his stand ; 
His trumpet call'd, with parleying strain, 

The leaders of the Scottish band ; 
And he defied, in Musgrave' s right, 
Stout Deloraine to single fight ; 
A gauntlet at their feet he laid, 
And thus the terms of fight he said : — 
" If in the lists good Musgrave's sword 

Vanquish the Knight of Deloraine, 
Your youthful chieftain, Branksome's 
Lord, 

Shall hostage for his clan remain : 
If Deloraine foil good Musgrave, 
The boy his liberty shall have. 

Howe'er it falls, the English band. 
Unharming Scots, by Scots unharm'd, 
In peaceful march, like men unarm'd, 

Shall straight retreat to Cumberland." 

XXXIII. 
Unconscious of the near relief, 
The proffer pleased each Scottish chief, 

Though much the Ladye sagegainsay'd , 
For though their hearts were brave and 

true, 
From Jedwood's recent sack they knew, 

How tardy was the Regent's aid : 
And you may guess the noble Dame 

Durst not the secret prescience own, 
Sprung from the art she might not name, 

By which the coming help was known. 
Closed was the compact, and agreed 
That lists should be enclosed with speed, 

Beneath the castle, on a lawn : 
They fix'd the morrow for the strife, 
On foot, with Scottish axe and knife, 

At the fourth hour from peep of dawn'; 
When Deloraine, from sickness freed, 
Or else a champion in his stead, 
Should for himself and chieftain stand, 
Against stout Musgrave, hand to hand. 

xxxiv. 
I know right well, that, in their lay, 
Full many minstrels sing and say, 

Such combat should be made on horse, 
On foaming steed, in full career 
With brand to aid, when as the spear 

Should shiver in the course : 
But.he, the jovial Harper, taught 
Me, yet a youth, how it was fought, 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



29 



In guise which now I say ; 
He knew each ordinance and clause 
Of Black Lord Archibald's battle-laws, 

In the old Douglas' day. 
He brook' d not, he, that scoffing tongue 
Should tax his minstrelsy with wrong, 

Or call his song untrue : 
For this, when they the goblet plied, 
And such rude taunt had chafed his pride, 

The Bard of Reull he slew. 
On Teviot's side, in fight they stood, 
And tuneful hands were stain'd with 

blood ; 
Where still the thorn's white branches 

wave, 
Memorial o'er his rival's grave. 

xxxv. 

Why should I tell the rigid doom, 
That dragg'd my master to his tomb ; 

How Ousenam's maidens tore their hair, 
Wept till their eyes were dead and dim, 
And wrung their hands for love of him, 

Who died at Jedwood Air ? 
He died ! — his scholars, one by one, 
To the cold silent grave are gone ; 
And I, alas ! survive alone, 
To muse o'er rivalries of yore, 
And grieve that I shall hear no more 
The strains, with envy heard before ; 
For, with my minstrel brethren fled, 
My jealousy of song is dead. 



He paused : the listening dames again 
Applaud the hoary Minstrel's strain. 
With many a word of kindly cheer, — 
In pity half, and half sincere, — 
Marvell'd the Duchess how so well 
His legendary song could tell — 
Of ancient deeds, so long forgot ; 
Of feuds, whose memory was not ; 
Of forests, now laid waste and bare ; 
Of towers, which harbour now the hare ; 
Of manners, long since changed and gone ; 
Of chiefs, who under their grey stone 
So long had slept, that fickle Fame 
Had blotted from her rolls their name, 
And twined round some new minion's head 
The fading wreath for which they bled ; 
In sooth, 'twas strange, this old man's verse 
Could call them from their marble hearse. 



The Harper smiled, well-pleased 
ne'er 
Was flattery lost on poet's ear : 
A simple race ! they waste their toil 
For the vain tribute of a smile ; 



for 



E'en when in age their flame expires, 
Her dulcet breath can fan its fires : 
Their drooping fancy wakes at praise, 
And strives to trim the short-lived blaze. 

Smiled then, well-pleased, theAged Man, 
And thus his tale continued ran. 



CANTO FIFTH, 
r. 
CALL it not vain: — they do not err, 

Who say, that when the Poet dies, 
Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, 

And celebrates his obsequies : 
Who say, tall cliff, and cavern lone, 
For the departed Bard make moan ; 
That mountains weep in crystal rill ; 
That fknvers in tears of balm distil ; 
Through his loved groves tha? breezes sigh, 
And oaks, in deeper groan, reply ; 
And rivers teach their rushing wave 
To murmur dirges round his grave. 

II. 

Not that, in. sooth, o'er mortal urn 
Those things inanimate can mourn ; 
But that the stream, the wood, the gale, 
Is vocal with the plaintive wail 
Of those, who, else forgotten long, 
Lived in the poet's faithful song, 
And, with the poet's parting breath, 
Whose memory feels a second death. 
The Maid's pale shade, who wails her lot, 
That love, true love, should be forgot, 
From rose and hawthorn shakes the tear 
Upon the gentle Minstrel's bier : 
The phantom Knight, his glory fled, 
Mourns o'er the field he heap'd with dead ; 
Mounts the wild blast that sweeps amain, 
And shrieks along the battle-plain. 
The Chief, whose antique crownlet long 
Still sparkled in the feudal song, 
Now, from the mountain's misty throne, 
Sees, in the thanedom once his own, 
His ashes undistinguish'd lie, 
His place, his power, his memory die : 
His groans the lonely caverns fill, 
His tears of rage impel the rill : 
All mourn the Minstrel's harp unstrung, 
Their name unknown, their praise unsung. 



Scarcely the hot assault was staid, 
The terms of truce were scarcely made, 



30 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When they could spy from Branksome's 

towers, 
The advancing march of martial powers. 
Thick clouds of dust afar appear'd, 
And trampling steeds were faintly heard ; 
Bright spears, above the columns dun, 
Glanced momentary to the sun ; 
And feudal banners fair display'd 
The bands that moved to Branksome's aid. 

IV. 

Vails not to tell each hardy clan, 

From the fair Middle Marches came ; 
The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 

Announcing Douglas, dreaded name ! 3S 
Vails not to tell what steeds did spurn, 
Where the Seven Spears of Wedderburne * 

Their men in battle-order set ; 
And Swinton laid the lance in rest, 
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 

Of Clarence's Plantagenet. 36 
Nor list I say what hundreds more, 
From the rich Merse and Lammermore, 
And Tweed's fair borders, to the war, 
Beneath the crest of Old Dunbar, 

And Hepburn's mingled banners come, 
Down the steep mountain glittering far, 

And shouting still, "A Home! a 
Home ! " 37 

v. 
Now squire and knight, from Branksome 

sent, 
On many a courteous message went ; 
To every chief and lord they paid 
Meet thanks for prompt and powerful aid ; 
And told them, — how a truce was made, 

And how a day of fight was ta'en 

'Twixt Musgrave and stout Deloraine ; 
And how the Ladye pray'd them dear, 

That all would stay the fight to see, 

And deign, in love and courtesy, 
To taste of Branksome cheer. 
Nor, while they bade to feast each Scot, 
Were England's noble Lords forgot. 
Himself, the hoary Seneschal, 
Rode forth, in seemly terms to call 
Those gallant foes to Branksome Hall. 
Accepted Howard, than whom knight 
Was never dubb'd more bold in fight ; 
Nor, when from war and armour free, 
More famed for stately courtesy ; 



* Sir David Home of Wedderburn, who was 
slain in the fatal battle of Flodden, left seven 
sons, who were called the Seven Spears of 
Wedderburne. 



But angry Dacre rather chose 
In his pavilion to repose. 



Now, noble Dame, perchance you ask, 

How these two hostile armies met ? 
Deeming it were no easy task 

To keep the truce which here was set ; 
Where martial spirits, all on fire, 
Breathed only blood and mortal ire. — 
By mutual inroads, mutual blows, 
By habit, and by nation, foes, 

They met on Teviot's strand ; 
They met and sate them mingled down, 
Without a threat, without a frown, 

As brothers nieet in foreign land : 
The hands, the spear that lately grasp' d, 
Still in the mailed gauntlet clasp'd, 

Were interchanged in greeting dear ; 
Visors were raised, and faces shown, 
And many a friend , to friend made known, 

Partook of social cheer. . 
Some drove the jolly bowl about ; 

With dice and draughts some chased 
the day ; 
And some, with many a merry shout, 
In riot, revelry, and rout, 

Pursued the foot-ball play. 



Yet, be it known, had bugles blown, 

Or sign of war been seen, 
Those bands, so fair together ranged, 
Those hands, so frankly interchanged, 

Had dyed with gore the green : 
The merry shout by Teviot-side 
Had sunk in war-cries wild and wide, 

And in the groan of death : 
And whingers + now in friendship bare, 
The social meal to part and share, 

Had found a bloody sheath. 
'Twixt truce and war, such sudden 

change 
Was not infrequent, nor held strange. 

In the old Border-day : 38 
But yet on Branksome's towers and town, 
In peaceful merriment, sunk down 

The sun's declining ray. 



The blithesome signs of wassel gay 
Decay' d not with the dying day ; 
Soon through the latticed windows tall 
Of lofty Branksome's lordly hall, 



t Large knives. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



a 



Divided square by shafts of stone, 
Huge flakes of ruddy lustre shone ; 
Nor less the gilded rafters rang 
With merry harp and beakers' clang : 
And frequent, on the darkening plain, 
Loud hollo, whoop, or whistle ran, 
As bands, their stragglers to regain, 
Give the shrill watchword of their 
clan ; 39 
And revellers, o'er their bowls, proclaim 
Douglas or Dacre's conquering name. 



Less frequent heard, and fainter still, 

At length the various clamours died : 
And you might hear, from Branksome hill, 

No sound but Teviot's rushing tide ; 
Save when the changing sentinel 
The challenge of his watch could tell ; 
And save where, through the dark pro- 
found, 
The clanging axe and hammer's sound 

Rung from the nether lawn ; 
For many a busy hand toil'd there, 
Strong pales to shape, and beams to square, 
The lists' dread barriers to prepare 

Against the morrow's dawn. 

x. 

Margaret from hall did soon retreat, 

Despite the Dame's reproving eye ; 
Nor mark'd she, as she left her seat, 

Full many a stifled sigh ; 
For many a noble warrior strove 
To win the Flower of Teviot's love, 

And many a bold ally. — 
With throbbing head and anxious heart, 
All in her lonely bower apart, 

In broken sleep she lay ; 
By times, from silken couch she rose ; 
While yet the banner'd hosts repose, 

She view'd the dawning day ; 
Of all the hundreds sunk to rest, 
First woke the loveliest and the best. 



She gazed upon the inner court, 

Which in the tower's tall shadow lay ; 
Where coursers' clang, and stamp, and 
snort, 

Had rung the livelong yesterday ; 
Now still as death ; till stalking slow, — 

The jingling spurs announced his tread, 
A stately warrior pass'd below ; 

But when he raised his plumed head — 
Bless'd Mary ! can it be ?— 



Secure, as if in Ousenam bowers, 
He walks through Branksome's hostile 
towers, 

With fearless step and free. 
She dared not sign, she dared not speak — 
Oh ! if one page's slumbers break, 

His blood the price must pay ! 
Not all the pearls Queen Mary wears, 
Not Margaret's yet more precious tears, 

Shall buy his life a day. 



Yet was his hazard small ; for well 
You may bethink you of the spell 

Of that sly urchin page' ; 
This to his lord he did impart, 
And made him seem, by glamour art, 

A knight from Hermitage. 
Unchallenged thus, the warder's post, 
The court, unchallenged, thus he cross'd, 

For all the vassalage : 
But O ! what magic's quaint disguise 
Could blind fair Margaret's azure eyes ! 

She started from her seat ; 
While with surprise and fear she strove, 
And both could scarcely master love — 

Lord Henry's at her feet. 



Oft have I mused, what purpose bad 
That fout malicious urchin had 

To bring this meeting round ; 
For happy love's a heavenly sight, 
And by a vile malignant sprite 

In such no joy is found ; 
And oft I've deem'd, perchance he thought 
Their erring passion might have wrought 

Sorrow, and sin, and shame ; 
And death to Cranstoun's gallant Knight, 
And to the gentle ladye bright, 

Disgrace, and loss of fame. 
But earthly spirit could not tell 
The heart of them that loved so well. 
| True love's the gift which God has given " 
To man alone beneath the heaven ; 

It is not fantasy's hot fire, 
Whose wishes, soon as granted, fly ; 

It liveth not in fierce desire, 
With dead desire it doth not die ; 
It is the secret sympathy, 
The silver link, the silken tie, 
Which heart to heart, and mind to mind, 
In body and in soul can bind. — 
Now leave we Margaret and her Knight, 
To tell you of the approaching fight. 



32 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Their warning blasts the bugles blew, 

The pipe's shrill port* aroused each clan; 
In haste, the deadly strife to view, 

The trooping warriors eager ran : 
Thick round the lists their lances stood, 
Like blasted pines in Ettrick wood ; 
To Branksome many a look they threw, 
The combatants' approach to view, 
And bandied many a word of boast, 
About the knight each favour'd most. 

xv. 
Meantime full anxious was the Dame ; 
For now arose disputed claim, 
Of who should fight for Deloraine, 
'Twixt Harden and 'twixt Thirlestane : 
They 'gan to reckon kin and rent, 
And frowning brow on brow was bent ; 

But yet not long the strife — for, lo ! 
Himself, the Knight of Deloraine, 
Strong, as it seem'd, and free from pain, 

In armour sheath'd from top to toe, 
Appear'd, and craved the combat due. 
The Dame her charm successful knew, 
And the fierce chiefs their claims withdrew. 



When for the lists they sought the plain, 
The stately Ladye's silken rein 

Did noble Howard hold ; 
Unarmed by her side he walk'd, 
And much, in courteous phrase, they talk'd 

Of feats of arms of old. 
Costly his garb — his Flemish ruff 
Fell o'er his doublet, shaped of buff, 

With satin slash' d and lined ; 
Tawny his boot, and gold his spur, 
His cloak was all of Poland fur, 

His hose with silver twined ; 
His Bilboa blade, by Marchmen felt, 
Hung in a broad and studded belt ; 
Hence, in rude phrase, the Borderers still 
Call'd noble Howard, Belted Will. 

XVII. 

Behind Lord Howard and the Dame, 
Fair Margaret on her palfrey came, 

Whose foot-cloth swept the ground : 
White was her whimple, and her veil, 
And her loose locks a chaplet pale 

Of whitest roses bound ; 
The lordly Angus, by her side, 
In courtesy to cheer her tried ; 



* A martial piece of music, adapted to the 
bagpipes. 



Without his aid, her hand in vain 
Had strove to guide her broider'd rein. 
He deem'd she shudder' d at the sight 
Of warriors met for mortal fight ; 
But cause of terror, all unguess'd, 
Was fluttering in her gentle breast, 
When, in their chairs of crimson placed, 
The Dame and she the barriers graced. 

xvur. 
Prize of the field, the young Buccleuch, 
An English knight led forth to view ; 
Scarce rued the boy his present plight, 
So much he longed to see the fight. 
Within the lists, in knightly pride, 
High Home and haughty Dacre ride ; 
Their leading staffs of steel they wield, 
As marshals of the mortal field ; 
While to each knight their care assign'd 
Like vantage of the sun and wind. 
The heralds hoarse did loud proclaim, 
In King and Queen, and Warden's name, 

That none, while lasts the strife, 
Should dare, by look, or sign, or word,. 
Aid to a champion to afford, 

On peril of his life ; 
And not a breath the silence broke, 
Till thus the alternate Herald spoke : 



ENGLISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth Richard of Musgrave, 

Good knight and true, and freely born, 
Amends from Deloraine to crave, 

For foul despiteous scathe and scorn. 
He sayeth, that William of Deloraine 

Is traitor false by Border laws ; 
This with his sword he will maintain, 

So help him God, and his good cause ! " 

xx. 

SCOTTISH HERALD. 

" Here standeth William of Deloraine, 
Good knight and true, of noble strain, 
Who sayeth, that foul treason's stain, 
Since he bore arms, ne'er soil'd his coat; 
And that, so help him God above ! 
He will on Musgrave's body prove, 
He lies most foully in his throat." 
LORD DACRE. 

"Forward, brave champions, to the fight! 
Sound trumpets ! " 

LORD HOME. 

"God defend the right !"* - 

Then, Teviot ! how thine echoes rang, 
When bugle-sound and trumpet clang 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



33 



Let loose the martial foes, 
And in mid list with shield poised high, 
And measured step and wary eye, 

The combatants did close. 



Ill would it suit your gentle ear, 

Ye lovely listeners, to hear 

How to the axe the helms did sound, 

And blood pour'd down from many a 

wound ; 
For desperate was the strife and long, 
And either warrior fierce and strong. 
But, were each dame a listening knight, 
I well could tell how warriors fight ! 
For I have seen war's lightning flashing, 
Seen the claymore with bayonet clashing, 
Seen through red blood the * war-horse 

dashing, 
And scorn'd, amid the reeling strife, 
To yield a step for death or life. — 

XXII. 

'Tis done, 'tis done ! that fatal blow 

Has stretch'd him on the bloody plain ! 
He strives to rise— Brave Musgrave, no ! 

Thence never shalt thou rise again ! 
He chokes in blood — some friendly hand 
Undo the visor's barred band, 
Unfix the gorget's iron clasp, 
And give him room for life to gasp ! — 
O, bootless aid ! — haste, holy Friar, 
Haste, ere the sinner shall expire ! 
Of all his guilt let him be shriven, 
And smooth his path from earth to heaven ! 



In haste the holy Friar sped ; — 
His naked foot was dyed with red, 

As through the lists he ran ; 
Unmindful of the shouts on high, 
That hail'd the conqueror's victory, 

He raised the dying man : 
Loose waved his silver beard and hair, 
As o'er him he kneel'd down in prayer ; 
And still the crucifix on high 
He holds before his darkening eye ; 
And still he bends an anxious ear, 
His faltering penitence to hear ; 

Still props him from the bloody sod, 
Still, even when soul and body part, 
Pours ghostly comfort on his heart, 

And bids him trust in God ! 
Unheard he prays ; — the death-pang'; 

o'er ! 
Richard of Musgrave breathes no more. 



XXIV. 

As if exhausted in the fight, 

Or musing o'er the piteous sight, 

The silent victor stands ; 
His beaver did he not unclasp, 
Mark'd not the shouts, felt not the grasp 

Of gratulating hands. 
When lo ! strange cries of wild surprise, 
Mingled with seeming terror, rise 

Among the Scottish bands ; 
And all, amid the throng'd array, 
In panic haste gave open way 
To a half-naked ghastly man, 
Who downward from the castle ran : 
He cross'd the barriers at a bound, 
And wild and haggard look'd around, 

As dizzy, and in pain ; 
And all, upon the armed ground, 

Knew William of Deloraine ! 
Each lady sprung from seat with speed ; 
Vaulted each marshal from his steed ; 

"And who art thou," they cried, 
"Who hast this battle fought and 

won?" — 
His plumed helm was soon undone — 

" Cranstoun of Teviot-side ! 
For this fair prize I've fought and won," — 
And to the Ladye led her son. 

xxv. 

Full oft the rescued boy she kiss'd, 
And often press' d him to her breast ; 
For, under all her dauntless show, 
Her heart had throbb'd at every blow ; 
Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, 
Though low he kneeled at her feet. 
Me lists not tell what w r ords were made, 
What Douglas, Home, and Howard, 
said — 

— For Howard was a generous foe — 
And how the clan united pray'd 

The Ladye would the feud forego, 
And deign to bless the nuptial hour 
Of Cranstoun's Lord andTeviot's Flower. 

XXVI. 

She look'd to river, look'd to hill, 

Thought on the Spirit's prophecy, 
Then broke her silence stern and still, — 

" Not you, but Fate, has vanquished me. 
Their influence kindly stars may shower 
On Teviot's tide and Branksome's tower, 

For pride is quell'd, and love is free." — 
She took fair Margaret by the hand, 
Who, breathless, trembling, scarce might 
stand, 

3 



34 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORJCS. 



That hand to Cranstoun's lord gave 
she : — 
"As I am true to thee and thine, 
Do thou be true to me and mine ! 

This clasp of love our bond shall.be ; 
For this is your betrothing day, 
And all these noble lords shall stay, 

To grace it with their company." 

xxvir. 
All as they left the listed plain, 
Much of the story she did gain ; 
How Cranstoun fought with Deloraine, 
And of his page, and of the Book 
Which from the wounded knight he took ; 
And how he sought her castle high, 
That morn, by help of gramarye ; 
How, in Sir William's armour dight, 
Stolen by his page, while slept the knight, 
He took on him the single fight. 
But half his tale he left unsaid, 
And linger'd till he join'd the maid. — 
Cared not the Ladye to betray 
Her mystic arts in view of day ; 
But well she thought, ere midnight came, 
Of that strange page the pride to tame, 
From his foul hands the Book to save, 
And send it back to Michael's grave. — 
Needs not to tell each tender word 
'Twixt Margaret and 'twixt Cranstoun's 

lord; 
Nor how she told of former woes, 
And how her bosom fell and rose, 
While he and Musgrave bandied blows. — 
Needs not these lovers' joys to tell : 
One day, fair maids, you'll know them well. 

XXVIII. 

William of Deloraine, some chance 
Had waken'd from his death-like trance ; 

And taught that, in the listed plain, 
Another, in his arms and shield, 
Against fierce Musgrave axe did wield, 

Under the name of Deloraine. 
Hence, to the field, unarm'd, he ran, 
And hence his presence scared the clan, 
Who held him for some fleeting wraith,* 
And not a man of blood and breath. 

Not much this new ally he loved, 

Yet, when he saw what hap had proved, 
He greeted him right heartilie : 
He would not waken old debate, 
For he was void of rancorous hate, 

Though rude and scant of courtesy ; 



In raids he spilt but seldom blood, 
Unless when men-at-arms withstood, 
Or, as was meet for deadly feud. 
He ne'er bore grudge for stalwart blow, 
Ta'en in fair fight from gallant foe ; 
And so 'twas seen of him, e'en now, 
When on dead Musgrave he look'd 
down ; 
Grief darken'd on his rugged brow, 
Though half disguised with a frown ; 
And thus, while sorrow bent his head, 
His foeman's epitaph he made. 

XXIX. 

' ' Now, Richard Musgrave, liest thou here ! 

I ween my deadly enemy ; 
For, if I slew thy brother dear, 

Thou slew'st a sister's son to me ; 
And when I lay in dungeon dark, 

Of Naworth Castle, long months three, 
Till ransom'd for a thousand mark, 

Dark Musgrave, it was long of thee. 
And, Musgrave, could our fight be tried, 

And thou wert now alive as I, 
No mortal man should us divide, 

Till one, or both of us, did die : 
Yet rest thee God ! for well I know 
I ne'er shall find a nobler foe. 
In all the northern counties here, 
Whose word is Snaffle, spur, and spear, 
Thou wert the best to follow gear ! 
'Twas pleasure, as we look'd behind, 
To see how thou the chase could'st wind, 
Cheer the dark blood-hound on his way, 
And with the bugle rouse the fray 1 
I'd give the lands of Deloraine, 
Dark Musgrave were alive again." 

xxx. 

So mourn' d he, till Lord Dacre's band 
Were bowning back to Cumberland. 
They raised brave Musgrave from the field, 
And laid him on his bloody shield ; 
On levell'd lances, four and four, 
By turns the noble burden bore. 
Before, at times, upon the gale, 
Was heard the Minstrel's plaintive wail ; 
Behind, four priests, in sable stole, 
Sung requiem for the warrior's soul : 
Around, the horsemen slowly rode ; 
With trailing pikes the spearmen trode ; 
And thus the gallant knight they bore, 
Through Liddesdale to Leven's shore ; 
Thence to Holme Coltrame's lofty nave, 
And laid him in his father's grave. 



* The spectral apparition of a living person- 




Yet not Lord Cranstoun deign'd she greet, 
Though now he kneeled at her feet. 

Lay of the Last Minstrel. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



35 



The harp's wild notes, though hush'd the 

song, 
The mimic march of death prolong ; 
Now seems it far, and now a-near, 
Now meets, and now eludes the ear ; 
Now seems some mountain-side to sweep, 
Now faintly dies in valley deep ; 
Seems now as if the Minstrel's wail, 
Now the sad requiem, loads the gale ; 
Last, o'er the warrior's closing grave, 
Rung the full choir in choral stave. 

After due pause, they bade him tell, 
Why he, who touch'd the harp so well, 
Should thus, with ill-rewarded toil, 
Wander a poor and thankless soil, 
When the more generous Southern Land 
Would well requite his skilful hand. 

The Aged Harper, howsoe'er 
His only friend, his harp, was dear, 
Liked not to hear it rank'd so high 
Above his flowing poesy : 
Less liked he still, that scornful jeer 
Misprised the land he loved so dear ; 
High was the sound, as thus again 
The Bard resumed his minstrel strain. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

i. 

•Breathes there the man, with soul so 

dead, 
Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land ! 
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, 
As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, 

From wandering on a foreign strand ! 
If such there breathe, go, mark him well ; 
For him no Minstrel raptures swell ; 
High though his titles, proud his name, 
Boundless his wealth as wish can claim ; 
Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, 
Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung. 

ii. 

O Caledonia ! stern and wild, 

Meet nurse for a poetic child ! 

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, 

Land of the mountain and the flood, 

Land of my sires ! what mortal hand 

Can e'er untie the filial band, 

That knits me to thy rugged strand ! 



Still, as I view each well-known scene, 
Think what is now, and what hath been, 
Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 
Sole friends thy woods and streams were 

left; 
And thus I love them better still, 
Even in extremity of ill. 
By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 
Though none should guide my feeble way ; 
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, 
Although it chill my wither' d cheek ; 
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone, 
Though there, forgotten and alone, 
The Bard may draw his parting groan. 



Not scorn'd like me ! to Branksome Hall 
The Minstrels came, at festive call ; 
Trooping they came, from near and far, 
The jovial priests of mirth and war ; 
Alike for feast and fight prepared, : 
Battle and banquet both they shared. 
Of late, before each martial clan, 
They blew their death-note in the van, 
But now, for every merry mate, 
Rose the portcullis' iron grate ; 
They sound the pipe, they strike the string, 
They dance, they revel, and they sing,. 
Till the rude turrets shake and ring. 



Me lists not at this tide declare 

The splendour of the spousal rite, 
How muster'd in the chapel fair 

Both maid and matron, squire and 
knight ; 
Me lists not tell of owches rare, 
Of mantles green, and braided hair, 
And kirtles furr'd with miniver ; 
What plumage waved the altar round, 
How spurs and ringing chainlets sound ; 
And hard it were for bard to speak 
The changeful hue of Margaret's cheek ; 
That lovely hue which comes and flies, 
As awe and shame alternate rise ! 



Some bards have sung, the Ladye high 
Chapel or altar came not nigh ; 
Nor durst the rights of spousal grace, 
So much she fear'd each holy place. 
False slanders these : — I trust right well 
She wrought not by forbidden spell ; 4 ° 
For mighty words and signs have power 
O'er sprites in planetary hour : 
Yet scarce I praise their venturous part, 
Who tamper with such dangerous art, 



36 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



- 



But this for faithful truth I say, 

The Ladye by the altar stood, 
Of sable velvet her array, 

And on her head a crimson hood, 
With pearls embroider'd and entwined, 
Guarded with gold, with ermine lined ; 
A merlin sat upon her wrist 4l 
Held by a leash of silken twist. 

VI. 
The spousal rites were ended soon : 
'Twas now the merry hour of noon, 
And in the lofty arched hall 
Was spread the gorgeous festival. 
Steward and squire, with heedful haste, 
Marshall'd the rank of every guest ; 
Pages, with ready blade, were there, 
The mighty meal to carve and share : 
O'er capon, heron-shew, and crane, 
And princely peacock's gilded train, 42 
And o'er the boar-head, garnish'd brave, 
And cygnet from St. Mary's wave ; * 
O'er ptarmigan and venison, 
The priest had spoke his benison. 
Then rose the riot and the din, 
Above, beneath, without, within! 
For, from the lofty balcony, 
Rung trumpet, shalm, and psaltery : 
Their clanging bowls old warriors quaff' d, 
Loudly they spoke, and loudly laugh'd ; 
Whisper'd young knights, in tone more 

mild, 
To ladies fair, and ladies smiled. 
The hooded hawks, high perch'd on beam, 
The clamour join'd with whistling screa'm, 
And flapp'd their wings, and shook their 

bells, 
In concert with the stag-hound's yells. 
Round go the flasks of ruddy wine, 
From Bourdeaux, Orleans, or the Rhine ; 
Their tasks the busy sewers ply 
And all is mirth and revelry. 



The Goblin Page, omitting still 

No opportunity of ill, 

Strove now, while blood ran hot and high, 

To rouse debate and jealousy ; 

Till Conrad, Lord of Wolfenstein, 

By nature fierce, and warm with wine, 

And now in humour highly cross'd, 

About some steeds his band had lost, 

High words to words succeeding still, 

Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hunthill ; 43 



* Flights of wild swans are often seen on 
St. Mary's Lake, which is at the head of the 
Yarrow. 



A hot and hardy Rutherford, 

Whom men called Dickon Draw-the- 

Sword. 
He took it on the page's saye, 
Hunthill had driven these steeds away. 
Then Howard, Home, and Douglas rose, 
Then kindling discord to compose : 
Stern Rutherford right little said, 
But bit his glove, 44 and shook his head. — 
A fortnight thence, in Inglewood, 
Stout Conrad, cold, and drench' d in blood, 
His bosom gored with many a wound, 
Was by a woodman's lyme-dog found ; 
Unknown the manner of his death, 
Gone was his brand, both sword and 

sheath ; 
But ever from that time, 'twas said, 
That Dickon wore a Cologne blade. 



The dwarf, who fear'd his master's eye 

Might his foul treachery espie, 

Now sought the castle buttery, 

Where many a yeoman, bold and free, 

Revell'd as merrily and well 

As those that sat in lordly selle. 

Watt Tinlinn, there, did frankly raise' 

The pledge to Arthur Fire-the-Braes ; f 

And he, as by his breeding bound, 

To Howard's merry-men sent it round. 

To quit them, on the English side, 

Red Roland Forster loudly cried, 

" A deep carouse to yon fair bride ! " — 

At every pledge, from vat and pail, 

Foam'd forth in floods the nut-brown ale ; 

While shout the riders every one ; 

Such day of mirth ne'er cheer'd their 

clan, 
Since old Buccleuch the name did gain, 
When in the cleuch the buck was ta'en. 



The wily page, with vengeful thought, 

Remember'd him of Tinlinn's yew, 

And swore, it should be dearly bought 

That ever he the arrow drew. 
Firsts he the yeoman did molest, 
With bitter gibe and taunting jest ; 
Told, how he fled at Solway strife, 
And how Hob Armstrong cheer'd his wife 
Then, shunning still his powerful arm, 
At unawares he wrought him harm ; 



t The person bearing this redoubtable nom 
de guerre was an Elliott, and resided at Thor- 
leshope, in Liddesdale. He occurs in the list 
of Border riders, in 1597. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



37 



■ From trencher stole his choicest cheer, 
j Dash'd from his lips his can of beer ; 

! Then, to his knee sly creeping on, 
With bodkin pierced him to the bone : 

■ The venom'd wound, and festering joint, 
. Long after rued that bodkin's point. 

I The startled yeoman swore and spurn' d, 
j And board and flagons overturn'd. 
1 Riot and clamour wild began ; 

Back to the hall the Urchin ran ; 
i Took in a darkling nook his post, 
! And grinn'd, and mutter'd, " Lost ! lost ! 
lost ! " 

x. 
: By this, the Dame, lest farther fray 
\ Should mar the concord of the day, 
Had bid the Minstrels tune their lay. 
And first stept forth old Albert Graeme, 
The Minstrel of that ancient name : *s 
Was none who struck the harp so well, 
Within the Land Debateable. 
Well friended," too, his hardy kin, 
Whoever lost, were sure to win ; 
They sought the beeves that made their 

broth, 
In Scotland and in England both. 
In homely guise, as nature bade, 
His simple song the Borderer said, 
xr. 

ALBERT GRJEME. 
It was an English ladye bright, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,*) 
And she would many a Scottish knight, 

For Love will still be lord of all. 
Blithely they saw the rising sun, 

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall ; 
But they were sad ere day was done, 

Though Love was still the lord of all. 
Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall ; 
Her brother gave but a flask of wine, 

For ire that Love was lord of all. 
For she had lands, both meadow and lea, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall, 
And he swore her death, ere he would see 

A Scottish knight the lord of all ! 

XII. 

That wine she had not tasted well, 
(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 

When dead, in her true love's arms, she 
For Love was still the lord of al l ! [fell, 

♦ This burden is from an old Scottish song. 



He pierced her brother to the heart, 

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall :— 
So perish all would true love part, 

That Love may still be lord of all ! 
And then he took the cross divine, 

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle 
wall,) 
And died for her sake in Palestine, 

So Love was still the lord of all. 
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove, 

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) 
Pray for their souls who died for love, 

For Love shall still be lord of all ! 



As ended Albert's simple lay, 

Arose a bard of loftier port ; 
For sonnet, rhyme, and roundelay, 

Renown'd in haughty Henry's court : 
There rung thy harp, unrivall'd long, 
Fitztraver of the silver song ! 
The gentle Surrey loved his lyre — 
Who has not heard of Surrey' 
fame? 46 
His was the hero's soul of fire, 

And his the bard's immortal name, 
And his was love, exalted high 
By all the glow of chivalry. 



They sought, together, climes afar, 

And oft, within some olive grove, 
When even came with twinkling star, 

They sung of Surrey's absent love. 
His step the Italian peasant stay'd, 

And deem'd, that spirits from on high, 
Round where some hermit saint was laid, 

Were breathing heavenly melody ; 
So sweet did harp and voice combine, 
To praise the name of Geraldine. 



Fitztraver ! O what tongue may say 
The pangs thy faithful bosom knew, 

When Surrey, of the deathless lay, 
Ungrateful Tudor's sentence slew ? 

Regardless of the tyrant's frown, 

His harp call'd wrath and vengeance down. 

He left, for Naworth's iron towers, 

Windsor's green glades, and courtly 
bowers, 

And faithful to his patron's name, 

With Howard still Fitztraver came ; 

Lord William's foremost favourite he, 

And chief of all his minstrelsy. 



3» 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



xvi. 

FITZTRAVER. 

'Twas All-souls' eve, and Surrey's heart 
beat high ; 
He heard the midnight bell with anxious 
start, 
Which told the mystic hour, approaching 
nigh, 
When wise Cornelius promised, by his art, 
To show to him the ladye of his heart, 
Albeit betwixt them roar'd the ocean 
grim; 
Yet so the sage had hight to play his part, 
That he should see her form in life and 
limb, 
And mark, if still she loved, and still she 
thought of him. 

XVII. 

Dark was the vaulted room of gramarye, 

To which the wizard led the gallant 
Knight, 
Save that before a mirror, huge and high, 

A hallow'd taper shed a glimmering light 
On mystic implements of magic might ; 

On cross, and character, and talisman, 
And almagest, and altar, nothing bright : 

For fitful was the lustre, pale and wan, 
As watchlight by the bed of some depart- 
ing man. 

XVIII. 
But soon, within that mirror huge and high, 

Was seen a self-emitted light to gleam ; 
And forms upon its breast the Earl 'gan spy, 

Cloudy and indistinct, as feverish dream, 
Till, slovvarranging.and defined, they seem 

To form a lordly and a lofty room, 
Part lighted by a lamp with silver beam, 

Placed by a couch of Agra's silken loom, 
And part by moonshine pale, and part was 
hid in gloom. 

XIX. 
Fair all the pageant — but how passing' fair 
The slender form, which lay on couch 
of Ind ! 
O'er her white bosom stray' d her hazel hair, 
Pale her dear cheek, as if for love she 
pined ; 
All in her night-robe loose she lay re- 
clined, 
And, pensive, read from tablet eburnine, 
Some strain that seem'd her inmost soul 
to find ; — 
That favour' d strain was Surrey's rap- 
tured line, [raldine ! 
That fair and lovely form, the Lady Ge- 



Slow roll'd the clouds upon the lovely form, 
And swept the goodly vision all away— . 
So royal envy roll'd the murky storm 

O'er my beloved Master's glorious day. 
Thou jealous, ruthless tyrant ! Heaven 
repay 
On thee, and on thy children's latest line, 
The wild caprice of thy despotic sway, 
The gory bridal bed, the plunder" d 
shrine, 
The murder'd Surrey's blood, the tears of 
Geraldine ! 



Both Scots and Southern chiefs prolong 
Applauses of Fitztraver's song ; 
These hated Henry's name as death, 
And those still held the ancient faith. — 
Then, from his seat, with lofty air, 
Rose Harold, bard of brave St. Clair ; 
St. Clair, who, feasting high at Home, 
Had with that lord to battle come. 
Harold was born where restless seas 
Howl round the storm-swept Orcades ; 
Where erst St. Clairs held princely sway 
O'er isle and islet, strait and bay ; — 
Still nods their palace to its fall, 
Thy pride and sorrow, fair Kirkwall ! — 
Thence oft he mark'd fierce Pentland rave, 
As if grim Odin rode her wave ; 
And watch'd, the whilst, with visage pale, 
And throbbing heart, the struggling sail ; 
For all of wonderful and wild 
Had rapture for the lonely child. 

XXII. 

And much of wild and wonderful 
In these rude isles might fancy cull ; 
For thither came, in times afar, 
Stern Lochlin's sons of roving war, 
The Norsemen, train' d to spoil and blood, 
Skill' d to prepare the raven's food ; 
Kings of the main their leaders brave, 
Their barks the dragons of the wave. 
And there, in many a stormy vale, 
The Scald had told his wondrous tale ; 
And many a Runic column high 
Had witness'd grim idolatry. 
And thus had Harold, in his youth, 
Learn'd many a Saga's rhyme uncouth,— 
Of that Sea-Snake * tremendous curl'd, 
Whose monstrous circle girds the world ; 

* For the Sea-Snake, see the " Edda," or 
Mallet's "Northern Antiquities," p. 445. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



39 



Of those dread Maids • whose hideous yell 
Maddens the battle's bloody swell ; 
Of Chiefs, who, guided through the gloom 
By the pale death-lights of the tomb, 
Ransack'd the graves of warriors old, 
Their falchions wrench' d from corpses' 

hold, 
Waked the deaf tomb with war's alarms, 
And bade the dead arise to arms ! 
With war and wonder all on flame, 
To Roslin's bowers young Harold came, 
Where, by sweet glen and greenwood tree, 
He learn 'd a milder minstrelsy ; 
Yet something of the Northern spell 
Mix'd with the softer numbers well. 

XXIII. 
HAROLD. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay ! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell ; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle : 

-»" Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! 

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay, 
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

"The blackening wave is edged with 
white : 

To inch f and rock the sea-mews fly ; 
The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, 

Whose screams forbode that wreck is 
nigh. 
•' ' Last night the gifted Seer did view 

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay ; 
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch : 

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"— 

" 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir 
To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my ladye-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle-hall. 

" 'Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide, 
If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."— 

O'er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, 
And redder than the bright moon-beam. 

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, 
If ruddied all the copse-wood glen, 



* The Valkyrior or Scandinavian Fates, or 
Fatal Sisters. 
f Inch, an island. 



'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, 
And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden. 

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud, 
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, 

Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheathed in his iron panoply. 

Seem'd all on fire, within, around, 

Deep sacristy and altar's pale, 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail. 
Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair — ■ 
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 

The lordly line of high St. Clair. 
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold 

Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; 
Each one the holy vault doth hold — 

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! 

And each St. Clair was buried there, 
With candle, with book, and with knell; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds 
sung, 
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

XXIV. 

So sweet was Harold's piteous lay, 

Scarce mark'd the guests the darken'd 
hall, 
Though, long before the sinking day, 

A wondrous shade involved them all : 
It was not eddying mist or fog, 
Drain'd by the sun from fen or bog ; 

Of no eclipse had sages told ; 
And yet, as it came on apace, 
Each one could scarce his neighbour's face, 

Could scarce his own stretch' d hand be- 
hold. 
A secret horror check'd the feast ; 
And chill'd the soul of every guest ; 
Even the high Dame stood half aghast, 
She knew some evil on the blast, 
The elfish page fell to the ground, 
And, shuddering, mutter'd, "Found! 
found ! found ! " 

XXV. 

Then sudden, through the darken'd air, 

A flash of lightning came ; 
So broad, so bright, so red the glare, 

The castle seem'd on flame. 
Glanced every rafter of the hall, 
Glanced every shield upon the wall ; 
Each trophied beam, each sculptured 

stone, 
Were instant seen, and instant gone ; 



40 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Full through the guests' bedazzled band 
Resistless flash'd the levin-brand, 
And fill'd the hall with smouldering smoke, 
As on the elfish page it broke. 

It broke, with thunder long and loud, 
Dismay'd the brave, appall'd the 
proud, — 
From sea to sea the larum rung ; 
On Berwick wall, and at Carlisle withal, 
To arms the startled warders sprung : 
When ended was the dreadful roar, 
The elvish dwarf was seen no more. 

xxvr. 

Some heard a voice in Branksome Hall, 
Some saw a sight, not seen by all ; 
That dreadful voice was heard by some, 
Cry, with loud summons, " Gylbin, 
come ! " 

And on the spot where burst the brand, 
Just where the page had flung him 
down, 

Some saw an arm, and some a hand, 
And some the waving of a gown. 
The guests in silence pray'd and shook, 
And terror dimm'd each lofty look. 
But none of all the astonish'd train 
Was so dismay'd as Deloraine ; 
His blood did freeze, his brain did burn, 
'Twas fear'd his mind would ne'er return ; 

For he was speechless, ghastly, wan, 

Like him of whom the story ran, 

Who spoke the spectre-hound in Man. 
At length, by fits, he darkly told, 
With broken hint, and shuddering cold — 

That he had seen, right certainly, 
A shape with amice wrapp'd around, 
With a wrought Spanish baldric bound, 

Like pilgrim from beyond the sea ; 
And knew — but how it matter'd not — 
It was the wizard, Michael Scott. 

xxvir. 
The anxious crowd, with horror pale, 
All trembling heard the wondrous tale ; 
No sound was made, no word was spoke, 
Till noble Angus silence broke ; 
And he a solemn sacred plight 
Did to St. Bride of Douglas make, 
That he a pilgrimage would take 
To Melrose Abbey, for the sake 
Of Michael's restless sprite. 
Then each, to ease his troubled breast, 
To some bless'd saint his prayers address'd: 
Some to St. Modan made their vows, 
Some to St. Mary of the Lowes, 



Some to the Holy Rood of Lisle, 
Some to our Ladye of the Isle ; 
Each did his patron witness make, 
That he such pilgrimage would take, 
And monks should sing, and bells should 

toll, 
All for the weal of Michael's soul. 
While vows were ta'en, and prayers were 

pray'd, 
'Tis said the noble dame, dismay'd, 
Renounced, for aye, dark magic's aid. 

xxvm. 
Nought of the bridal will I tell, 
Which after in short space befell ; 
Nor how brave sons and daughters fair 
Bless'd Teviot's Flower, and Cranstoun's 

heir: 
After such dreadful scene, 'twere vain 
To wake the note of mirth again. 

More meet it were to mark the day 
Of penitence and prayer divine, 

When pilgrim chiefs, in sad array, 
Sought Melrose' holy shrine, 
xxix. 
With naked foot, and sackcloth vest, 
And arms enfolded on his breast, 

Did eveiy pilgrim go ; 
The standers-by might hear uneath,* 
Footstep, or voice, or high-drawn breath, 

Through all the lengthen' d row : 
No lordly look, nor martial stride, 
Gone was their glory, sunk their pride, 

Forgotten their renown ; 
Silent and slow, like ghosts they glide 
To the high altar's hallow'd side, 

And there they knelt them down : 
Above the suppliant chieftains wave 
The banners of departed brave ; 
Beneath the letter' d stones were laid 
The ashes of their fathers dead ; 
From many a garnish'd niche around, 
Stern saints and tortured martyrs frown' d. 

XXX. 

And slow up the dim aisle afar, 
With sable cowl and scapular, 
And snow-white stoles, in order due, 
The holy Fathers, two and two, 

In long procession came ; 
Taper, and host, and book they bare, 
And holy banner, fiourish'd fair 

With the Redeemer's name. 
Above the prostrate pilgrim band 
The mitred Abbot stretch'd his hand, 

_* Scarcely hear. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



41 



And bless'd them as they kneel'd ; 

With holy cross he sign'd them all, 

And pray'd they might be sage in hall, 
And fortunate in field. 

Then mass was sung, and prayers were 
said, 

And solemn requiem for the dead ; 

And bells toll'd out their mighty peal, 

For the departed spirit's weal ; 

And ever in the office close 

The hymn of intercession rose ; 

And far the echoing aisles prolong 

The awful burthen of the song, — 
Dies ir^e, dies illa, 
solvet s^clum in favilla ; 

While the pealing organ rung. 
Were it meet with sacred strain 
To close my lay, so light and vain, 

Thus the holy Fathers sung : — 

XXXI. 

HYMN FOR THE DEAD. 
That day of wrath, that dreadful day, 
When heaven and earth shall pass away, 
What power shall be the sinner's stay ? 
How shall he meet that dreadful day ? 
When, shrivelling like a parched scroll, 
The flaming heavens together roll ; 
When louder yet, and yet mere dread, 
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead, 
Oh ! on that day, that wrathful day, 
When man to judgment wakes from clay, 



Be Thou the trembling sinner's stay, 
Though heaven and earth shall pass away 



Hush'd is the harp — the Minstrel gone. 
And did he wander forth alone ? 
Alone, in indigence and age, 
To linger out his pilgrimage ? 
No ; close beneath proud Newark's tower, 
Arose the Minstrel's lowly bower ; 
A simple hut ; but there was seen 
The little garden hedged with green, 
The cheerful hearth, and lattice clean. 
There shelter'd wanderers, by the blaze, 
Oft heard the tale of other days ; 
For much he loved to ope his door, 
And give the aid he begg'd before. 
So pass'd the winter's day ; but still, 
When summer smiled on sweet Bowhill, 
And July's eve, with balmy breath, 
Waved the blue-bells on Newark heath ; 
When throstles sung in Harehead-shaw, 
And corn was green on Carterhaugh, 
And flourish'd, broad, Blackandro's oak, 
The aged Harper's soul awoke ! 
Then would he sing achievements high, 
And circumstance of chivalry. 
Till the rapt traveller would stay, 
Forgetful of the closing day ; 
And noble youths, the strain to hear, 
Forsook the hunting of the deer ; 
And Yarrow, as he roll'd along, 
Bore burden to the Minstrel's song. 



MARMION: 

A TALE OF FLODDEN FIELD. 



IN SIX CANTOS. 



Alas ! that Scottish maid should sing 
The combat where her lover fell ! 

That Scottish Bard should wake the string, 
The triumph of our foes to tell ! 

Leyden, 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 



HENRY LORD MONTAGU, ETC., ETC., ETC. 



THIS ROMANCE IS INSCRIBED BY 



THE AUTHOR. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The present story turns upo?i the private adventures of a fictitious character; but is called 
a Tale oj ' Flodden Field, beca?tse the hero's fate is connected with that memorable defeat, and 
the causes which led to it. The design of the Author was, if possible, to apprize his readers, 
at the outset, of the date of his Story, and to prepare tJiem for the maimers of the Age in 
which it is laid. Any Historical Narrative, far more an attempt at Epic composition, 
exceeded his plan of a Romantic Tale ; yet lie may be permitted to hope, from the popularity 
of The Lay of the Last Minstrel, that an attempt to paint the manners of the feudal 
times, upon a broader scale, and in the course of a more interesting story, will not be unac- 
ceptable to the Public. 

The Poem opens aboitt the commencement of August, and concludes with the defeat of 
Flodden, gth September, 1513. 

ASHESTIEL, l8o§, 



MARMION. 43 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

What I have to say respecting this Poem may be briefly told. In the Introduction to the 
"Lay of the Last Minstrel," I have mentioned the circumstances, so \ far as my literary life is 
concerned, which induced me to resign the active pursuit of an honourable profession, for the 
more precarious resources of literature. My appointment to the Sheriffdom of Selkirk called 
for a change of residence. I left, therefore, the pleasant cottage I had upon the side of the Esk, 
for the "pleasanter banks of the Tweed," in order to comply with the law, which requires that 
the Sheriff shall be resident, at least during a certain number of months, within his jurisdiction. 
We found a delightful retirement, by my becoming the tenant of my intimate friend and cousin- 
german, Colonel Russell, in his mansion of Ashestiel, which was unoccupied, during his absence 
on military service in India. The house was adequate to our accommodation, and the exercise 
of a limited hospitality. The situation is uncommonly beautiful, by the side of a fine river, 
whose streams are there very favourable for angling, surrounded by the remains of natural 
woods, and by hills abounding in game. In point of society, according to the heartfelt phrase 
of Scripture, we dwelt " amongst our own people ; " and as the distance from the metropolis was 
only thirty miles, we were not out of reach of" our Edinburgh friends, in which city we spent 
the terms of the summer and winter Sessions of the Court, that is, five or six months in the year. 

An important circumstance had, about the same time, taken place in my life. Hopes had been 
held out to me from an influential quarter, of a nature to relieve me from the anxiety which I 
must have otherwise felt, as one upon the precarious tenure of whose own life rested the principal 
prospects of his family, and especially as one who had necessarily some dependence upon the 
favour of the public, which is proverbially capricious ; though it is but justice to add, that, in 
ruy own case, I have not found it so. Mr. Pitt had expressed a wish to my personal friend, the 
Right Honourable William Dundas, now Lord Clerk Register of Scotland, that some fitting 
opportunity should be taken to be of service to me ; and as my views and wishes pointed to a 
future rather than an immediate provision, an opportunity of accomplishing this was soon found. 
One of the Principal Clerks of Session, as they are called, (official persons who occupy an im- 
portant and responsible situation, and enjoy a considerable income,) who had served upwards of 
thirty years, felt himself, from age, and the infirmity of deafness with which it was accompanied, 
desirous of retiring from his official situation. As the law then stood, such official persons were 
entitled to bargain with their successors, either for a sum of money, which was usually a con- 
siderable one, or for an interest in the emoluments of the office during their life. My prede- 
cessor, whose services had been unusually meritorious, stipulated for the emoluments of his 
office during his life, while I should enjoy the survivorship, on the condition that I discharged 
the duties of the office in the mean time. Mr. Pitt, however, having died in the interval, his 
administration was dissolved, and was succeeded by that known by the name of the Fox and 
Grenville Ministry. My affair was so far completed, that my commission lay in the office sub- 
scribed by his Majesty ; but, from hurry or mistake, the interest of my predecessor was not 
expressed in it, as had been usual in such cases. Although, therefore, it only required payment 
of the fees, I could not in honour take out the commission in the present state, since in the event 
of my dying before him, the gentleman whom I succeeded must have lost the vested interest 
which he had stipulated to retain. I had the honour of an interview with Earl Spencer on the 
subject, and he, in the most handsome manner, gave directions that the commission should issue 
as originally intended ; adding, that the matter having received the royal assent, he regarded 
only as a claim of justice what he would have willingly done as an act of favour. I never saw 
Mr. Fox on this, or on any other occasion, and never made any application to him, conceiving that 
in doing so I might have been supposed to express political opinions contrary to those which I 
had always professed. In his private capacity, there is no man to whom I would have been, 
more proud to owe an obligation, had I been so distinguished. 

By this arrangement I obtained the survivorship of an office, the emoluments of which were 
fully adequate to my wishes ; and as the law respecting the mode of providing for superannuated 
officers was, about five or six years after, altered from that which admitted the arrangement of 
assistant and successor, my colleague very handsomely took the opportunity of the alteration, to 
accept of the retiring annuity provided in such cases, and admitted me to the full benefit of the 
office. 

But although the certainty of succeeding to a considerable income, at the time I obtained it, 
seemed to assure me of a quiet harbour in my old age, I did not escape my share of inconveni- 
ence from the contrary tides and currents by which we are so often encountered in our journey 
through life. Indeed the publication of my next poetical attempt was prematurely accelerated, 
from one of those unpleasant accidentswhich can neither be foreseen nor avoided. 



44 SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 

I had formed the prudent resolution to endeavour to bestow a little more labour than I had 

f;et done on my productions, and to he in no hurry again to announce myself as a candidate for 
iterary fame. Accordingly, particular passages of a poem, which was finally called " Marmion," 
were laboured with a good deal of care, by one by whom much care was seldom bestowed. 
Whether the work was worth the labour or not, I am no competent judge ; but I may be per- 
mitted to say, that the period of its composition was a very happy one in my life ; so much so, 
that I remember with pleasure, at this moment, some of the spots in which particular passages 
were composed. It is probably owing to this, that the Introductions to the several Cantos as- 
sumed the form of familiar epistles to my intimate friends, in which I alluded, perhaps more 
than was necessary or graceful, to my domestic occupations and amusements— a loquacity which 
may be excused by those who remember that I was still young, light-headed, and happy, and 
that "out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh." 

The misfortunes of a near relation and friend, which happened at this time, led me to alter my 
prudent determination, which had been, to use great precaution in sending this poem into the 
world ; and made it convenient at least, if not absolutely necessary, to hasten its publication. 
The publishers of " The Lay of the Last Minstrel," emboldened by the success of that poem, 
willingly offered a thousand pounds for " Marmion." The transaction, being no secret, afforded 
Lord Byron, who was then at general war with all who blacked paper, an apology for including 
me in his satire, entitled " English Bards and Scotch Reviewers." I never could conceive how 
an arrangement between an author and his publishers, if satisfactory to the persons concerned, 
could afford matter of censure to any third party. I had taken no unusual or ungenerous means 
of enhancing the value of my merchandise — I had never higgled a moment about the bargain, 
but accepted at once what I considered the handsome offer of my publishers. These gentlemen, 
at least, were not of opinion that they had been taken advantage of in the transaction, which, 
indeed, was one of their own framing ; on the contrary, the sale of the Poem was so far beyond 
their expectation, as to induce them to supply the Author's cellars with what is always an ac- 
ceptable present to a young Scottish housekeeper, namely, a hogshead of excellent claret. 

The Poem was finished in too much haste, to allow me an opportunity of softening down, 
if not removing, some of its most prominent defects. The nature of Marmion's guilt, although 
similar instances were found, and might be quoted, as existing in feudal times, was nevertheless 
not sufficiently peculiar to be indicative of the character of the period, forgery being the crime 
of a commercial, rather than of a proud and warlike age, This gross defect ought to have been 
remedied or palliated. Yet I suffered the tree to lie as it had fallen. I remember my friend, 
Dr. Leyden, then in the East, wrote me a furious remonstrance on the subject. I have, never- 
theless, always been of opinion, that corrections, however in themselves judicious, have a bad 
effect — after publication. An author is never so decidedly condemned as on his own confession, 
and may long find apologists and partisans, until he gives up his own cause. I was not, there- 
fore, inclined to afford matter for censure out of my own admissions ; and, by good fortune, the 
novelty of the subject, and, if I may so say, some force and vivacity of description, were allowed 
to atone for many imperfections. Thus the second experiment on the public patience, generally 
the most perilous, — for the public are then most apt to judge with rigour, what in the first in- 
stance they had received, perhaps, with imprudent generosity, — was in my case decidedly suc- 
cessful. 1 had the good fortune to pass this ordeal favourably, and the return of sales before me 
makes the copies amount to thirty-six thousand printed between 1808 and 1825, besides a con- 
siderable sale since that period. I shall here pause upon the subject of " Marmion," and, in a 
few prefatory words to " The Lady of the Lake," the last poem of mine which obtained eminent 
success, I will continue the task which I have imposed on myself respecting the origin of my 
productions. 

Abbotsford, April, 1830. 






MARMION. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO FIRST. 



WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, ESQ. 
Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 
November's sky is chill and drear, 
November's leaf is red and sear : 
Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 
That hems our little garden in, 
Low in its dark and narrow glen, 
You scarce the rivulet might ken, 
So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 
So feeble trill'd the streamlet through : 
Now murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 
Through bush and brier, no longer green, 
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 
Brawls over rock. and wild cascade, 
And, foaming brown with doubled speed, 
Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 

No longer Autumn's glowing red 
Upon our Forest hilis is shed ; 
No more, beneath the evening beam, 
Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam ; 
Away hath pass'd the heather-bell 
That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow his brow, and russet bare 
Are now the sister-heights of Yair. 
The sheep, before the pinching heaven, 
To shelter'd dale and down are driven, 
Where yet some faded herbage pines, 
And yet a watery sunbeam shines : 
In meek despondency they eye 
The wither'd sward and wintry sky, 
And far beneath their summer hill, 
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill : 
The shepherd shifts his mantle's fold, 
And wraps him closer from the cold ; 
His dogs no merry circles wheel, 
But, shivering, follow at his heel ; 
A cowering glance they often cast, 
As deeper moans the gathering blast. 

My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, 
As best befits the mountain child, 
Feel the sad influence of the hour, 
And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower ; 
Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, 
And anxious ask, — Will spring return, 
And birds and lambs again be gay, 
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray ? 



Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower 
Again shall paint your summer bower ; 
Again the hawthorn shall supply 
The garlands you delight to tie ; 
The lambs upon the lea shall bound, 
The wild birds carol to the round, 
And while you frolic light as they, 
Too short shall seem the summer day. 

To mute and to material things 
New life revolving summer brings ; 
The genial call dead Nature hears, 
And in her glory reappears . 
But oh ! my country's wintry state 
What second spring shall renovate ? 
What powerful call shall bid arise 
The buried warlike and the wise ; 
The mind that thought for Britain's weal, 
The hand that grasp'd the victor steel? 
The vernal sun new life bestows 
Even on the meanest flower that blows ; 
But vainly, vainly may he shine, 
Where glory weeps o'er Nelson's shrine ; 
And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, 
That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallow'd 
tomb! 

Deep graved in every British heart, 
O never let those names depart ! 
Say to your sons, — Lo, here his grave, 
Who victor died on Gadite wave ; * 
To him, as to the burning levin, 
Short, bright, resistless course was given. 
Where'er his country's foes were found, 
Was heard the fated thunder's sound, 
Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, 
Roll'd, blazed, destroy' d, — and was no 
more. 

Nor mourn ye less his perish' d worth, 
Who bade the conqueror go forth, 
And launch'd that thunderbolt of war 
On Egypt, Hafnia, f Trafalgar ; 
Who, born to guide such high emprize, 
For Britain's weal was early wise ; 
Alas ! to whom the Almighty gave, 
For Britain's sins, an early grave ! 

* Nelson. Gadite wave, sea of Cadiz, or 
Gades. t Copenhagen. 



46 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



His worth, who, in his mightiest hour, 
A bauble held the pride of power, 
Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf, 
And served his Albion for herself ; 
Who, when the frantic crowd amain 
Strain' d at subjection's bursting rein, 
O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd, 
The pride, he would not crush, restrain' d, 
Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause, 
And brought the freeman's arm, to aid the 
freeman's laws. 

Had'st thou but lived, though stripp'd of 

power, 
A watchman on the lonely tower, 
Thy thrilling trump had roused the land, 
When fraud or danger were at hand ; 
By thee, as by the beacon-light, 
Our pilots had kept course aright ; 
As some proud column, though alone, 
Thy strength had propp'd the tottering 

throne : 
Now is the stately column broke, 
The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke, 
The trumpet's silver sound is still, 
The warder silent on the hill ! 

Oh think, how to his latest day, 
When Death, just hovering, claim'd his 

prey, 
With Palinure's unalter'd mood, 
Firm at his dangerous post he stood ; 
Each call for needful rest repell'd, 
With dying hand the rudder held, 
Till, in his fall, with fateful sway, 
The steerage of the realm gave way ! 
Then, while on Britain's thousand plains, 
One unpolluted church remains, 
Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around 
The bloody tocsin's maddening sound, 
But still, upon the hallow'd day, 
Convoke the swains to praise and pray ; 
While faith and civil peace are dear, 
Grace this cold marble with a tear, — 
He, who preserved them, Pitt, lies here ! 

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh, 
Because his rival slumbers nigh ; 
Nor be thy requiescat dumb, 
Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb. 
For talents mourn, untimely lost, 
When best employ'd, and wanted most ; 
Mourn genius high, and lore profound, 
And wit that loved to play, not wound ; 
And all the reasoning powers divine, 
To penetrate, resolve, combine ; 
And feelings keen, and fancy's glow, — 
They sleep with him who sleeps below : 



And, if thou mourn'st they could not save 
From error him who owns this grave, 
Be every harsher thought suppress'd, 
And sacred be the last long rest. ' 
Here, where the end of earthly things 
Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings ; 
Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue, 
Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung; 
Here, where the fretted aisles prolong 
The distant notes of holy song, 
As if some angel spoke agen, 
"All peace on earth, good-will to men ; " 
If ever from an English heart, 
O, here let prejudice depart, 
And, partial feeling cast aside, 
Record, that Fox a Briton died ! 
When Europe crouch'd to Fiance's yoke, 
And Austria bent, and Prussia broke, 
And the firm Russian's purpose brave, 
Was barter'd by a timorous slave, 
Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd, 
The sullied olive-branch return'd, 
Stood for his country's glory fast, 
And nail'd her colours to the mast ! 
Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave 
A portion in this honour'd grave, 
And ne'er held marble in its trust 
Of two such wondrous men the dust. 

With more than mortal powers endow'd, 
How high they soar'd above the crowd ! 
Theirs was no common party race, 
Jostling by dark intrigue for place ; 
Like fabled Gods, their mighty war 
Shook realms and nations in its jar ; 
Beneath each banner proud to stand, 
Look'd up the noblest of the land, 
Till through the British world were known 
The names of Pitt and Fox alone. , 
Spells of such force no wizard grave 
E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave, 
Though his could drain the ocean dry, 
And force the planets from the sky. 
These spells are spent, and, spent with 

these, 
The wine of life is on the lees, 
Genius, and taste, and talent gone, 
For ever tomb'd beneath the stone, 
Where — taming thought to human 

pride ! — 
The mighty chiefs sleep side by side. 
Drop upon Fox's grave the tear, 
'Twill trickle to his rival's bier ; 
O'er Pitt's the mournful requiem sound, 
And Fox's shall the notes rebound. 
The solemn echo seems to cry, — 
" Here let their discord with them die. 



MARMIOiV. 



4? 



Speak not for those a separate doom, 
Whom £ate made Brothers in the tomb ; 
But search the land of living men, 
Where wilt thou find their like agen ? " 

Rest,' ardent Spirits ! till the cries 
Of dying Nature bid you rise ; 
Not even your Britain's groans can pierce 
The leaden silence of your hearse ; 
Then, O, how impotent and vain 
This grateful tributary strain ! 
Though not unmark'd from northern clime, 
Ye heard the Border Minstrel's rhyme : 
His Gothic harp has o'er you rung ; 
The Bard you deign'd to praise, your 

deathless names has sung. 
Stay yet, illusion, stay a while, 
My wilder' d fancy still beguile ! 
From this high theme how can I part, 
Ere half unloaded is my heart ! 
For all the tears e'er sorrow drew, 
And all the raptures fancy knew, 
And all the keener rush of blood, 
That throbs through bard in bard-like 

mood, 
Were here a tribute mean and low, 
Though all their mingled streams could 

flow — 
Woe, wonder, and sensation high, 
In one spring-tide of ecstasy ! — . 
It will not be — it may not last — 
The vision of enchantment's past : 
Like frostwork in the morning ray, 
The fancied fabric melts away ; 
Each Gothic arch, memorial-stone, 
And long, dim, lofty aisle, are gone ; 
And, lingering last, deception dear, 
The choir's high sounds die on my ear. 
Now slow return the lonely down, 
The silent pastures bleak and brown, 
The farm begirt with copsewood wild, 
The gambols of each frolic child, 
Mixing their shrill cries with the tone 
Of Tweed's dark waters rushing on. 

Prompt on unequal tasks to run, 
Thus Nature disciplines her son : 
Meeter, she says, for me to stray, 
And waste the solitary day, 
In plucking from yon fen the reed, 
And watch it floating down the Tweed ; 
Or idly list the shrilling lay, 
With which the milkmaid cheers her way, 
Marking its cadence rise and fail, 
As from the field, beneath her pail, 
She trips it down the uneven dale : 
Meeter for me, by yonder cairn, 
The ancient shepherd's tale to learn ; 



Though oft he stop in rustic fear, 
Lest his old legends tire the ear 
Of one, who, in his simple mind, 
May boast of book-learn' d taste refined. 

But thou, my friend, canst fitly tell, 
(For few have read romance so well), 
How still the legendary lay 
O'er poet's bosom holds its sway ; 
How on the ancient minstrel strain 
Time lays his palsied hand in vain ; 
And how our hearts at doughty deeds, 
By warriors wrought in steely weeds, 
Still throb for fear and pity's sake ; 
As when the champion of the Lake 
Enters Morgana's fated house, 
Or in the Chapel Perilous, 
Despising spells and demons' force, 
Holds converse with the unburied corse ; 1 
Or when, Dame Ganore's grace to move, 
(Alas, that lawless was their love !) 
He sought proud Tarquin in his den, 
And freed full sixty knights ; or when, 
A sinful man, and unconfess'd, 
He took the Sangreal's holy quest, 
And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 
He might not view with waking eye. 2 
The mightiest chiefs of British song 
Scorn' d not such legends to prolong : 
They gleam through Spenser's elfin dream, 
And mix in Milton's heavenly theme ; 
And Dryden, in immortal strain, 
Had raised the Table Round again, 3 
But that a ribald King and Court 
Bade him toil on, to make them sport ; 
Demanded for their niggard pay, 
Fit for their souls, a looser lay, 
Licentious satire, song, and play ; 
The world defrauded of the high design, 
Profaned the God-given strength, and 
marr'd the lofty line. 
Warm'd by such names, well may we 
then, 
Though dwindled sons of little men, 
Essay to break a feeble lance 
In the fair fields of old romance ; 
Or seek the moated castle's cell, 
Where long through talisman and spell, 
While tyrants ruled, and damsels wept, 
Thy Genius, Chivalry, hath slept : 
There sound the harpings of the North, 
Till he awake and sally forth, 
On venturous quest to prick again, 
In all his arms, with all his train, 
Shield, lance, and brand, and plume, and 

scarf, 
Fay, giant, dragon, squire, and dwarf, 



4 8 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



And wizard with his wand of might, 
And errant maid on palfrey white. 
Around the Genius weave their spells, 
Pure Love, who scarce his passion tells ; 
Mystery, half veil'd and half reveal'd ; 
And Honour, with his spotless shield ; 
Attention, with fix'd eye ; and Fear, 
That loves the tale she shrinks to hear ; 
And gentle Courtesy ; and Faith, 
Unchanged by sufferings, time, or death 
And Valour, lion-mettled lord, 
Leaning upon his own good sword. 

Well has thy fair achievement shown, 
A worthy meed may thus be won ; 
Ytene's * oaks — beneath whose shade 
Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold, 4 
And that Red King, f who, while of old, 
Through Boldrewood the chase he led, 
By his loved huntsman's arrow bled — 
Ytene's oaks have heard again 
Renew'd such legendary strain ; 
For thou hast sung, how He of Gaul, 
That Amadis so famed in hall, 
For Oriana, foil'd in fight 
The Necromancer's felon might ; 
And well in modern verse hast wove 
Partenopex's mystic love : % 
Hear, then, attentive to my lay, 
A knightly tale of Albion's elder day. 



CANTO FIRST. 

THE CASTLE. 
I. 

Day set on Norham's castled steep, 5 
And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep, 

And Cheviot's mountains lone : 
The battled towers, the donjon keep, 6 
The loophole grates, where captives weep, 
The flanking walls that round it sweep, 

In yellow lustre shone. 
The warriors on the turrets high, 
Moving athwart the evening sky, 

Seem'd forms of giant height : 
Their armour, as it caught the rays, 
Flash'd back again the western blaze, 

In lines of dazzling light. 
II. 
Saint George's banner, broad and gay, 
Now faded, as the fading ray 



* Yte?ie, ancient name of the New Forest, 
Hants. t William Rufus. 

i Partenopex, a poem by W. S. Rose. 



Less bright, and less, was flung ; 
The evening gale had scarce the power 
To wave it on the Donjon Tower, 

So heavily it hung. 
The scouts had parted on their search, 

The Castle gates were barr'd ; 
Above the gloomy portal arch, 
Timing his footsteps to a march, 

The Warder kept his guard ; 
Low humming, as he paced along, 
Some ancient Border gathering song. 

in. 
A distant trampling sound he hears ; 
He looks abroad, and soon appears, 
O'er Horncliff-hill a plump of spears, § 

" Beneath a pennon gay ; 
A horseman, darting from the crowd, 
Like lightning from a summer cloud, 
Spurs on his mettled courser proud, 

Before the dark array. 
Beneath the sable palisade, 
That closed the Castle barricade, 

His bugle-horn he blew ; 
The warder hasted from the wall, 
And warn'd the Captain in the hall, 
For well the blast he knew ; 
And joyfully that knight did call, 
To sewer, squire, and seneschal. 

IV. 

" Now broach ye a pipe of Malvoisie,|| 

Bring pasties of the doe, 
And quickly make the entrance free, 
And bid my heralds ready be, 
And every minstrel sound his glee, 

And all our trumpets blow ; 
And, from the platform, spare ye not 
To fire a noble salvo-shot ; 

Lord Marmion waits below ! " 
Then to the Castle's lower ward 

Sped forty yeomen tall, 
The iron-studded gates unbarr'd, 
Raised the portcullis' ponderous guard, 
The lofty palisade unsparr'd 

And let the drawbridge fall. 

v. 

Along the bridge Lord Marmion rode, 
Proudly his red-roan charger trode, 
His helm hung at the saddlebow ; 
Well by his visage you might know 
He was a stalworth knight, and keen, 
And had in many a battle been ; 
The scar on his brown cheek reveal'd 
A token true of Bosworth field ; 



§ Body of men-at-arms. || Malmsey. 



MARMION. 



49 



His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire, 
Show'd spirit proud, and prompt to ire ; 
Yet lines of thought upon his cheek 
Did deep design and counsel speak. 
His forehead, by his casque worn bare, 
His thick moustache, and curly hair, 
Coal-black, and grizzled here and there, 

But more through toil than age ; 
His square-turn'd joints, and strength of 

limb, 
Show'd him no carpet knight so trim, 
But in close fight a champion grim, 

In camps a leader sage. 



Well was he arm'd from head to heel, 
In mail and plate of Milan steel ; 7 
But his strong helm, of mighty cost, 
Was all with burnisn'd gold emboss'd : 
Amid the plumage of the crest, 
A falcon hover'd on her nest, 
With wings outspread, and forward breast ; 
E'en such a falcon, on his shield, 
Soar'd sable in an azure field : 
The golden legend bore aright, 
?2lbo cbcchs at me, to bmth is big^f. 8 
Blue was the charger's broider'd rein ; 
Blue ribbons deck'd his arching mane ; 
The knightly housing's ample fold 
Was velvet blue, and trapp'd with gold. 



Behind him rode two gallant squires, 
Of noble name, and knightly sires ; 
They burn'd the gilded spurs to claim ; 
For well could each a war-horse tame, 
Could draw the bow, the sword could 

sway, 
And lightly bear the ring away ; 
Nor less with courteous precepts stored, 
Could dance in hall, and carve at board, 
And frame love-ditties passing rare, 
And sing them to a lady fair. 

VIII. 

Four men-at-arms came at their backs, 
With halbert, bill, and battle-axe ; 
They bore Lord Marmion's lance so strong, 
And led his sumpter-mules along, 
And ambling palfrey, when at need 
Him listed ease his battle-steed. 
The last and trustiest of the four, 
On high his forky pennon bore ; 
Like swallow's tail, in shape and hue, 
Flutter'd the streamer glossy blue, 
Where, blazon'd sable, as before, 
The towering falcon seem'd to soar. 



Last, twenty yeomen, two and two, 
In hosen black, and jerkins blue, 
With falcons broider'd on each breast, 
Attended on their lord's behest. 
Each, chosen for an archer good, 
Knew hunting-craft by lake or wood ; 
Each one a six-foot bow could bend, 
And far a cloth-yard shaft could send ; 
Each held a boar-spear tough and strong, 
And at their belts their quivers rung. 
Their dusty palfreys, and array, 
Show'd they had march'd a weary way. 

IX. 

'Tis meet that I should tell you now, 
How fairly arm'd, and order'd how, 

The soldiers of the guard, 
With musket, pike, and morion, 
To welcome noble Marmion, 

Stood in the Castle-yard ; 
Min^rels and trumpeters were there, 
The gunner held his linstock yare, 

For welcome-shot prepared : 
Enter'd the train, and such a clang, 
As then through all his turrets rang, 

Old Norham never heard. 
x. 
The guards their morrice-pikes advanced, 

The trumpets flourish'd brave, 
The cannon from the ramparts glanced, 

And thundering welcome gave. 
A blithe salute, in martial sort, 

The minstrels well might sound, 
For, as Lord Marmion cross'd the court, 

He scatter'd angels * round. 
" Welcome to Norham, Marmion ! 

Stout heart, and open hand ! 
Well dost thou brook thy gallant roan, 

Thou flower of English land ! " 
xr. 
Two pursuivants, whom tabarts f deck, 
With silver scutcheon round their neck, 

Stood on the steps of stone, 
By which you reach the donjon gate, 
And there, with herald pomp and state, 

They hail'd Lord Marmion : 
They hail'd him Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town ; 9 
And he, their courtesy to requite, 
Gave them a chain of twelve marks' weight, 

All as he lighted down. 



* A gold coin of the period, value about ten 
shillings. 

t The embroidered overcoat of the heralds, 
&c. 



5° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



".Now, largesse, largesse,* Lord Marmion, 

Knight of the crest of gold ! 
A blazon'd shield, in battle won, 

Ne'er guarded heart so bold." 

xir. 
They marshall'd him to the Castle-hall, 

Where the guests stood all aside, 
And loudly flourish" d the trumpet-call, 

And the heralds loudly cried, 
— "Room, lordings, room for Lord Mar- 
mion, 

With the crest and helm of gold ! 
Full well we know the trophies won 

In the lists of Cottiswold : 
There, vainly Ralph de Wilton strove 

'Gainst Marmion's force to stand ; 
To him he lost his lady-love, 

And to the King his land. 
Ourselves beheld the listed field, 

A sight both sad and fair ; 
We saw Lord Marmion pierce his shield, 

And saw his saddle bare ; 
We saw the victor win the crest 

He wears with worthy pride ; 
And on the gibbet-tree, reversed, 

His foeman's scutcheon tied. 
Place, nobles, for the Falcon-Knight ! 

Room, room, ye gentles gay, 
For him who conquer'd in the right, 

Marmion of Fontenaye ! " 

XIII. 

Then stepp'd to meet that noble Lord, 

Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
Baron of Twisell, and of Ford, 
And Captain of the Hold. 10 
He led Lord Marmion to the deas, 

Raised o'er the pavement high, 
And placed him in the upper place — 

They feasted full and high : 
The whiles a Northern harper rude 
Chanted a rhyme of deadly feud, 

" How the fierce Thirwalls, and Ridleys 
all, 
Stout Willimondswick, 
And Hardriding Dick, 
A fid Hughie of Hawdon, and Will d 
the Wall, 
Have set on Sir Albany Featherstonhaugh, 
A nd taken his life at the Deadman 's-shaw. 

* The cry by which the bounty of knights 
and nobles was thanked. The word is still 
used in the hop gardens of Kent and Sussex, 
as a demand for payment from strangers en- 
tering them. 



Scantly Lord Marmion's ear could brook 

The harper's barbarous lay ; 
Yet much he praised the pains he took, 
And well those pains did pay : 
For lady's suit, and minstrel's strain, 
By knight should ne'er be heard in vain. 



" Now, good Lord Marmion," Heron says, 

" Of your fair courtesy, 
I pray you bide some little space 

In this poor tower with me. 
Here may you keep your arms from rust, 

May breathe your war-horse well ; 
Seldom hath pass'd a week but giust 

Or feat of arms befell : 
The Scots can rein a mettled steed ; 

And love to couch a spear ; — 
Saint George ! a stirring life they lead, ' 

That have such neighbours near. 
Then stay with us a little space, 

Our northern wars to learn ; 
I pray you, for your lady's grace ! " 

Lord Marmion's brow grew stern, 
xv. 
The Captain mark'd his alter'd look, 

And gave a squire the sign ; 
A mighty wassail-bowl he took, 

And crown'd it high in wine. 
' ' Now pledge me here, Lord Marmion : 

But first I pray thee fair, 
Where hast thou left that page of thine, 
That used to serve thy cup of wine, 

Whose beauty was so rare ? 
When last in Raby towers we met, 

The boy I closely eyed, 
And often mark'd his cheeks were wet, 

With tears he fain would hide : 
His was no rugged horse-boy's hand, 
To burnish shield or sharpen brand, 

Or saddle battle-steed ; 
But meeter seem'd for lady fair, 
To fan her cheek, or curl her hair, 
Or through embroidery, rich and rare, 

The slender silk to lead ; 
His skin was fair, his ringlets gold, 

His bosom — when he sigh'd, 
The russet doublet's rugged fold 

Could scarce repel its pride ! 
Say, hast thou given that lovely youth 

To serve in lady's bower? 
Or was the gentle page, in sooth, 

A gentle paramour? " 

XVI. 

Lord Marmion ill could brook such jest; 
He roll'd his kindling eye, 



MARMION. 



5* 



With pain his rising wrath suppress'd, 

Yet made a calm reply : 
" That boy thou thought'stso goodly fair, 
He might not brook the northern air ; 
More of his fate if thou wouldst learn, 
I left him sick in Lindisfarn : 
Enough of him. — But, Heron, say, 
Why does thy lovely lady gay 
Disdain to grace the hall to-day ? 
Or has that dame, so fair and sage, 
Gone on some pious pilgrimage ? " — 
He spoke in covert scorn, for fame 
Whisper'd light tales of Heron's dame. 

XVII. 

Unmark'd, at least unreck'd, the taunt ; 

Careless the Knight replied, 
" No bird, whose feathers gaily flaunt, 

Delights in cage to bide : 
Norham is grim and grated close, 
Hemm'd in by battlement and fosse, 

And many a darksome tower ; 
And better loves my lady bright 
To sit in liberty and light, 

In fair Queen Margaret's bower. 
We hold our greyhound in our hand, 

Our falcon on our glove ; 
But where shall we find leash or band, 

For dame that loves to rove ? 
Let the wild falcon soar her swing, 
She' 11 stoop when she has tired her wing." — 



" Nay, if with Royal James's bride 
The lovely Lady Heron bide, 
Behold me here a messenger, 
Your tender greetings prompt to bear ; 
For, to the Scottish court address'd, 
I journey at our King's behest, 
And pray you, of your grace, provide 
For me, and mine, a trusty guide. 
I have not ridden in Scotland since 
James back'd the cause of that mock prince 
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 
Who on the gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march with Surrey's power, 
What time we razed old Ay ton tower." " 

XIX. 

" For such-like need, my lord, I trow, 
Norham can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have prick'd as far, 
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar ; 
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
And given them light to set their hoods." n 



"Now, in good sooth," Lord Marmion 

cried, 
" Were I in warlike wise to ride, 
A better guard I would not lack, 
Than your stout forayers at my back ; 
But, as in form of peace I go, 
A friendly messenger, to know, 
Why through all Scotland, near and far, 
Their King is mustering troops for war, 
The sight of plundering border spears 
Might justify suspicious fears, 
And deadly feud, or thirst of spoil, 
Break out in some unseemly broil : 
A herald were my fitting guide ; 
Or friar, sworn in peace to bide ; 
Or pardoner, or travelling priest, 
Or strolling pilgrim, at the least." 

XXI. 

The Captain mused a little space, 

And pass'd his hand across his face. 

— " Fain would I find the guide you want, 

But ill may spare a pursuivant, 

The only men that safe can ride 

Mine errands on the Scottish side : 

And though a bishop built this fort, 

Few holy brethren here resort ; 

Even our good chaplain, as I ween, 

Since our last siege, we have not seen : 

The mass he might not sing or say, 

Upon one stinted meal a-day ; 

So, safe he sat in Durham aisle, 

And pray'd for our success the while. 

Our Norham vicar, woe betide, 

Is all too well in case to ride ; 

The priest of Shoreswood I3 — he could rein 

The wildest war-horse in your train ; 

But then, no spearman in the hall 

Will sooner swear, or stab, or brawl. 

Friar John of Tillmouth were the man : 

A blithesome brother at the can, 

A welcome guest in hall and bower, 

He knows each castle, town, and tower, 

In which the wine and ale is good, 

'Twixt Newcastle and Holy-Rood. 

But that good man, as ill befalls, 

Hath seldom left our castle walls, • 

Since, on the vigil of St. Bede, 

In evil hour, he cross'd the Tweed, 

To teach Dame Alison her creed. 

Old Bughtrig found him with his wife ; 

And John, an enemy to strife, 

Sans frock and hood, fled for his life. 

The jealous churl hath deeply swore, 

That, if again he venture o'er, 

He shall shrieve. penitent no more. 



52 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Little he loves such risks, I know ; 
Yet, in your guard, perchance will go.' 



Young Selby, at the fair hall-board, 
Carved to his uncle and that lord, 
And reverently took up the word. 
' ' Kind uncle, woe were we each one, 
If harm should hap to brother John. 
He is a man of mirthful speech, 
Can many a game and gambol teach ; 
Full well at tables can he play, 
And sweep at bowls the stake away. 
None can a lustier carol bawl, 
The needfullest among us all, 
When time hangs heavy in the hall, 
And snow comes thick at Christmas tide, 
And we can neither hunt, nor ride 
A foray on the Scottish side. 
The vow'd revenge of Bughtrig rude, 
May end in worse than loss of hood. 
Let Friar John, in safety, still 
In chimney-corner snore his fill, 
Roast hissing crabs, or flagons swill : 
Last night, to Norham there came one, 
Will better guide Lord Marmion." — 
"Nephew," quoth Heron, "by my fay, 
Well hast thou spoke ; say forth thy say." 

XXIII. 

1 ' Here is a holy Palmer come, 

From Salem first, and last from Rome ; 

One, that hath kiss'd the blessed tomb, 

And visited each holy shrine 

In Araby and Palestine ; 

On hills of Armenie hath been, 

Where Noah's ark may yet be seen ; 

By that Red Sea, too, hath he trod, 

Which parted at the prophet's rod ; 

In Sinai's wilderness he saw 

The Mount, where Israel heard the law, 

'Mid thunder-dint, and flashing levin, 

And shadows, mists, and darkness, given. 

He shows Saint James's cockle-shell, 

Of fair Montserrat, too, can tell ; 

And of that Grot where Olives nod, 
Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
From all the youth of Sicily, 

Saint Rosalie retired to God. 14 

XXIV. 

' ' To stout Saint George of Norwich merry, 
Saint Thomas, too, of Canterbury, , 

Cuthbert of Durham and Saint Bede, 
For his sins' pardon hath he pray'd. 
He knows the passes of the North, 
And seeks far shrines beyond the Forth ; 



Little he eats, and long will wake, 
And drinks but of the stream or lake. 
This were a guide o'er moor and dale ; 
But, when our John hath quaff d his ale, 
As little as the wind that blows, 
And warms itself against his nose, 
Kens he, or cares, which way he goes." — 



"Gramercy !" quoth Lord Marmion, 
" Full loth were I, that Friar John, 
That venerable man, for me, 
Were placed in fear or jeopardy. 
If this same Palmer will me lead 

From hence to Holy-Rood, 
Like his good saint, I'll pay his meed, 
Instead of cockle-shell, or bead, 

With angels fair and good. 
I love such holy ramblers ; still 
They know to charm a weary hill, 

With song, romance, or lay : 
Some jovial tale, or glee, or jest, 
Some lying legend, at the least, 

They bring to cheer the way." — 

XXVI. 

" Ah ! noble sir," young Selby said, 

And finger on his lip he laid, 

' ' This man knows much, perchance e'en 

more 
Than he could learn by holy lore. 
Still to himself he's muttering, 
And shrinks as at some unseen thing. 
Last night we listen'd at his cell ; 
Strange sounds we heard, and, sooth to 

tell, 
He murmur' d on till morn, howe'er 
No living mortal could be near. 
Sometimes I thought I heard it plain, 
As other voices spoke again. 
I cannot tell — I like it not — 
Friar John hath told us it is wrote, 
No conscience clear, and void of wrong, 
Can rest awake, and pray so long. 
Himself still sleeps before his beads 
Have mark'd ten aves, and two creeds." X5 

XXVII. 

— " Let pass," quoth Marmion ; " by my 

fay, 
This man shall guide me on my way, 
Although the great arch-fiend and he 
Had sworn themselves of company. 
So please you, gentle youth, to call 
This Palmer to the Castle-hall." 
The summon'd Palmer came in place ; l6 
His sable cowl o'erhung his face ; 



MARMION. 



53 



In his black mantle was he clad, 
With Peter's keys, in cloth of red, 

On his broad shoulders wrought ; 
The scallop shell his cap did deck ; 
The crucifix around his neck 

Was from Loretto brought ; 
His sandals were with travel tore, 
Staff, budget, bottle, scrip, he wore ; 
The faded palm-branch in his hand 
Show'd pilgrim from the Holy Land. 

XXVIII. 

When as the Palmer came in hall, 

No lord, nor knight, was there more tall, 

Nor had a statelier step withal, 

Or look'd more high and keen ; 
For no saluting did he wait, 
But strode across the hall of state, 
And fronted Marmion where he sate, 

As he his peer had been. 
But his gaunt frame was worn with toil ; 
His cheek was sunk, alas the while ! 
And when he struggled at a smile, 

His eye look'd haggard wild : 
Poor wretch ! the mother that him bare, 
If she had been in presence there, 
In his wan face, and sun-burn'd hair, 

She had not known her child. 
Danger, long travel, want, or woe, 
Soon change the form that best we know — 
For deadly fear can time outgo, 

And blanch at once the hair ; 
Hard toil can roughen form and face, 
And want can quench the eye's bright 

grace, 
Nor does old age a wrinkle trace 

More deeply than despair. 
Happy whom none of these befall, 
But this poor Palmer knew them all. 

XXIX. 

Lord Marmion then his boon did ask ; 
The Palmer took on him the task, 
So he would march with morning tide, 
To Scottish court to be his guide. 
"But I have solemn vows to pay, 
And may not linger by the way, 

To fair St. Andrew's bound, 
Within the ocean-cave to pray, 
Where good Saint Rule his holy lay, 
From midnight to the dawn of day, 

Sung to the billows' sound ; 1? 
Thence to Saint Fillan's blessed well, 
Whose spring can frenzied dream s dispel, 

And the crazed brain restore : x 8 
Saint Mary grant, that cave or spring 
Could back to peace my bosom bring, 

Or bid it throb no more ! " 



And now the midnight draught of sleep, 
Where wine and spices richly steep, 
In massive bowl of silver deep, 

The page presents on knee. 
Lord Marmion drank a fair good rest, 
The Captain pledged his noble guest, 
The cup went through among the rest, 

Who drain'd it merrily ; 
Alone the Palmer pass'd it by, 
Though Selby press'd him courteously. 
This was a sign the feast was o'er ; 
It hush'd the merry wassel roar, 

The minstrels ceased to sound. 
Soon in the castle nought was heard, 
But the slow footstep of the guard, 

Pacing his sober round. 

XXXI. 

With early dawn Lord Marmion rose : 

And first the chapel doors unclose ; 

Then, after morning rites were done, 

(A hasty mass from Friar John,) 

And knight and squire had broke their fast, 

On rich substantial repast, 

Lord Marmion's bugles blew to horse : 

Then came the stirrup-cup in course : 

Between the Baron and his host, 

No point of courtesy was lost ; 

High thanks were by Lord Marmion paid, 

Solemn excuse the Captain made, 

Till, filing from the gate, had pass'd 

That noble train, their Lord the last. 

Then loudly rung the trumpet call ; 

Thunder'd the cannon from the wall, 

And shook the Scottish shore ; 
Around the castle eddied slow, 
Volumes of smoke as white as snow, 

And hid its turrets hoar ; 
Till they roll'd forth upon the air, 
And met the river breezes there, 
Which gave again the prospect fair. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SECOND. 



THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A.M. 

Ashes tie I, Ettrick Forest. 
The scenes are desert now, and bare, 
Where flourish'd once a forest fair, 19 
When these waste glens with copse were 

lined, 
And peopled with the hart and hind. 



54 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yon Thorn — perchance whose prickly 

spears 
Have fenced him for three hundred years, 
While fell around his green compeers — 
Yon lonely Thorn, would he could tell 
The changes of his parent dell, 
Since he, so gray and stubborn now, 
Waved in each breeze a sapling bough ; 
Would he could tell how deep the shade 
A thousand mingled branches made ; 
How broad the shadows of the oak, 
How clung the rowan* to the rock, 
And through the foliage show'd his head, 
With narrow leaves and berries red ; 
What pines on every mountain sprung, 
O'er every dell what birches hung, 
In every breeze what aspens shook, 
What alders shaded every brook ! 

■ ' ' Here, in my shade, " methinks he'd say, 
"The mighty stag at noon-tide lay : 
The wolf I've seen, a fiercer game, 
(The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) 
With lurching step around me prowl, 
And stop, against the moon to howl ; 
The mountain-boar, on battle set, 
His tusks upon my stem would whet ; 
While doe, and roe, and red-deer good, 
Have bounded by, through gay green- 
wood. 
Then oft, from Newark's riven tower, 
Sallied a Scottish monarch's power : 
A thousand vassals muster'd round, 
With horse, and hawk, and horn, and 

hound ; 
And I might see the youth intent, 
Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; 
And through the brake the rangers stalk, 
And falc'ners hold the ready hawk; 
And foresters, in green-wood trim, 
Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, 
Attentive, as the bratchet's + bay 
From the dark covert drove the prey, 
To slip them as he broke away. 
The startled quarry bounds amain, 
As fast the gallant greyhounds strain 
Whistles the arrow from the bow, 
Answers the harquebuss below ; 
While all the rocking hills reply, 
To hoof-clang, hound, and hunters' cry, 
And bugles ringing lightsomely." 

Of such proud huntings, many tales 
Yet linger in our lonely dales, 
Up pathless Ettrick and on Yarrow, 



* Mountain ash. 



t Slowhound. 



Where erst the outlaw drew his arrow.* 
But not more blithe that silvan court, 
Than we have been at humbl§r sport ; 
Though small our pomp, and mean our 

game, 
Our mirth, dear Marriott, was the same. 
Remember'st thou my greyhounds true ? 
O'er holt or hill there never flew, 
From slip or leash there never sprang, 
More fleet of foot, or sure of fang. 
Nor dull, between each merry chase, 
Pass'd by the intermitted space ; 
For we had fair resource in store, 
In Classic and in Gothic lore : 
We mark'd each memorable scene, 
And held poetic talk between ; 
Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, 
But had its legend or its song. 
All silent now — for now are still 
Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! § 
No longer, from thy mountains dun, 
The yeoman hears the well-known gun, 
And while his honest heart glows warm, 
At thought of his paternal farm, 
Round to his mates a brimmer fills, 
And drinks, ' ' The Chieftain of the Hills ! " 
No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, 
Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, 
Fair as the elves whom Janet saw 
By moonlight dance on Carterhaugh ; 
No youthful Baron's left to grace 
The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, 
And ape, in manly step and tone, 
The majesty of Oberon : 
And she is gone, whose lovely face 
Is but her least and lowest grace ; 
Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, 
To show our earth the charms of Heaven, 
She could not glide along the air, 
With form more light, or face more fair. 
No more the widow's deafen'd ear 
Grows quick that lady's step to hear : 
At noon-tide she expects her not, 
Nor busies her to trim the cot ; 
Pensive she turns her humming wheel, 
Or pensive cooks her orphans' meal ; 
Yet blesses, ere she deals their bread, 
The gentle hand by which they're fed. 

From Yair, — which hills so closely bind, 
Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, 
Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, 
Till all his eddying currents boil, — 



t Murray, the Robin Hood of Ettrick, but 
inferior in good qualities to our archer. 

§ A seat of the Duke of Buccleuch on tho 
Yarrow. 



MARMION. 



55 



Her long-descended lord is gone, 
And left us by the stream alone. 
And much I miss those sportive boys, 
Companions of my mountain joys, 
Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, 
When thought is speech, and speech is 

truth. 
Close to my side, with what delight 
They press'd to hear of Wallace wight, 
When, pointing to his airy mound, 
I call'd his ramparts holy ground ! 
Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; 
And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, 
Despite the difference of our years, 
Return again the glow of theirs. 
Ah, happy boys ! such feelings pure, 
They will not, cannot, long endure ! 
Condemn'd to stem the world's rude tide, 
You may not linger by the side ; 
For Fate shall thrust you from the shore, 
And Passion ply the sail and oar. 
Yet cherish the remembrance still, 
Of the lone mountain, and the rill ; 
For trust , dear boys, the time will come, 
When fiercer transport shall be dumb, 
And you will think right frequently, 
But, well, I hope, without a sigh, 
On the free hours that we have spent 
Together, on the brown hill's bent. 

When, musing on companions gone, 
We doubly feel ourselves alone, 
Something, my friend, we yet may gain ; 
There is a pleasure in this pain : 
It soothes the love of lonely rest, 
Deep in each gentler heart impress'd. 
'Tis silent amid worldly toils, 
And stifled soon by mental broils ; 
But in a bosom thus prepared, 
Its still small voice is often heard, 
Whispering a mingled sentiment, 
'Twixt resignation and content. 
Oft in my mind such thoughts awake, 
By lone St. Mary's silent lake ; 20 
Thou know'st it well, — nor fen, nor sedge, 
Pollute the pure lake's crystal edge ; 
Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink 
At once upon the level brink ; 
And just a trace of silver sand 
Marks where the water meets the land. 
Far in the mirror, bright and blue, 
Each hill's huge outline you may view ; 
Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, 
Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake, is there, 
Save where, of land, yon slender line 
Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. 
Yet even this nakedness has power, 



And aids the feeling of the hour : 
Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, 
Where living thing conceal'd might lie ; 
Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, 
Where swain, or woodman lone, might 

dwell ; 
There's nothing left to fancy's guess, 
You see that all is loneliness : 
And silence aids — though the steep hills 
Send to the lake a thousand rills ; , 
In summer tide, so soft they weep, 
The sound but lulls the ear asleep ; 
Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, 
So stilly is the solitude. 

Nought living meets the eye or ear, 
But well I ween the dead are near ; 
For though, in feudal strife, a foe 
Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, 21 
Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, 
The peasant rests him from his toil, 
And, dying, bids his bones be laid, 
Where erst his simple fathers pray'd. 

If age had tamed the passions' strife, 
And fate had cut my ties to life, 
Here, have I thought, 'twere sweet to 

dwell, 
And rear again the chaplain's cell, 
Like that same peaceful hermitage, 
Where Milton long'd to spend his age. 
'Twere sweet to mark the setting day, 
On Bourhope's lonely top decay ; 
And, as it faint and feeble died 
On the broad lake, and mountain's side, 
To say, ' ' Thus pleasures fade away ; 
Youth, talents, beauty, thus decay, 
And leave us dark, forlorn, and gray ; " 
Then gaze on Dryhope's ruin'd tower, 
And think on Yarrow's faded Flower : 
And when that mountain-sound I heard, 
Which bids us be for storm prepared, 
The distant rustling of his wings, 
As up his force the Tempest brings, 
'Twere sweet, ere yet his terrors rave, 
To sit upon the Wizard's grave ; 
That Wizard Priest's, whose bones are 

thrust 
From company of holy dust ; 22 
On which no sunbeam ever shines — 
(So superstition's creed divines) — 
Thence view the lake, with sullen roar, 
Heave her broad billows to the shore ; 
And mark the wild-swans mount the gale, 
Spread wide through mist their snowy sail, 
And ever stoop again, to lave 
Their bosoms on the surging wave : 



s« 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Then, when against the driving hail 

No longer might my plaid avail, 

Back to my lonely home retire, 

And light my lamp, and trim my fire ; 

There ponder o'er some mystic lay, 

Till the wild tale had all its sway. 

And, in the bittern's distant shriek, 

I heard unearthly voices speak, 

And thought the Wizard Priest was come, 

To claim again his ancient home ! 

And bade my busy fancy range, 

To frame him fitting shape and strange, 

Till from the task my brow I clear'd, 

And smiled to think that I had fear'd. 

But chief, 'twere sweet to think such life, 
(Though but escape from fortune's strife,) 
Something most matchless good and wise, 
A great and grateful sacrifice ; 
And deem each hour to musing given, 
A step upon the road to heaven. 

Yet him, whose heart is ill at ease, 
Such peaceful solitudes displease : 
He loves to drown his bosom's jar 
Amid the elemental war : 
And my black Palmer's choice had been 
Some ruder and more savage scene, 
Like that which frowns round dark Loch- 

skene. 2 3 
There eagles scream from isle to shore ; 
Down all the rocks the torrents roar ; 
O'er the black waves incessant driven, 
Dark mists infect the summer heaven ; 
Through the rude barriers of the lake, 
Away its hurrying waters break, 
Faster and whiter dash and curl, 
Till down yon dark abyss they hurl. 
Rises the fog-smoke white as snow, 
Thunders the viewless stream below, 
Diving, as if condemned to lave 
Some demon's subterranean cave, 
Who, prison'd by enchanter's spell, 
Shakes the dark rock with groan and yell. 
And well that Palmer's form and mien 
Had suited with the stormy scene, 
Just on the edge, straining his ken 
To view the bottom of the den, 
Where, deep deep down, and far within.. 
Toils with the rocks the roaring linn ; 
Then, issuing forth one foamy wave, 
And wheeling round the Giant's Grave, 
White as the snowy charger's tail, 
Drives down the pass of Moffatdale. 

Marriott, thy harp, on Isis strung, 
To many a Border theme has rung : 



Then list to me, and thou shalt know 
Of this mysterious Man of Woe. 



CANTO SECOND. 



THE CONVENT. 



The breeze which swept away the smoke, 

Round Norham Castle roll'd, 
When all the loud artillery spoke, 
With lightning-flash and thunder-stroke, 

As Marmion left the Hold. 
It curl'd not Tweed alone, that breeze, 
For, far upon Northumbrian seas, 

It freshly blew, and strong, 
Where, from high Whitby's cloister' d pile, 
Bound to St. Cuthbert's Holy Isle, 2 * 

It bore a bark along. 
Upon the gale she stoop'd her side, 
And bounded o'er the swelling tide, 

As she were dancing home ; 
The merry seamen laugh'd, to see 
Their gallant ship so lustily 

Furrow the green sea-foam. 
Much joy'd they in their honour' d freight ; 
For, on the deck, in chair of state, 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda placed, 
With five fair nuns, the galley graced. 



'Twas sweet to see these holy maids, 
Like birds escaped to green-wood shades 

Their first flight from the cage, 
j How timid, and how curious too, 
For all to them was strange and new, 
And all the common sights they view, 

Their wonderment engage. 
One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 

With many a benedicite ; 
One at the rippling surge grew pale, 

And would for terror pray ; 
Then shriek'd, because the sea-dog, nigh, 
His round black head, and sparkling eye, 

Rear'd o'er the foaming spray ; 
And one would still adjust her veil, 
Disorder'd by the summer gale, 
Perchance lest some more worldly eye 
Her dedicated charms might spy ; 
Perchance, because such action graced 
Her fair-turn'd arm and slender waist. 
Light was each simple bosom there, 
Save two, who ill might pleasure share, — 
The Abbess and the Novice Clare. 



MARMIOiVt 



57 



in. 
The Abbess was of noble blood, 
But early took the veil and hood, 
Ere upon life she cast a look, 
Or knew the world that she forsook. 
Fair too she was, and kind had been 
As she was fair, but ne'er had seen 
For her a timid lover sigh, 
Nor knew the influence of her eye. 
Love, to her ear, was but a name 
Combined with vanity and shame ; 
Her hopes, her fears, her joys, were all 
Bounded within the cloister wall : 
The deadliest sin her mind could reach, 
Was of monastic rule the breach ; 
And her ambition's highest aim 
To emulate Saint Hilda's fame. 
For this she gave her ample dower, 
To raise the convent's eastern tower ; 
For this, with carving rare and quaint, 
She deck'd the chapel of the saint, 
And gave the relic-shrine of cost, 
With ivory and gems emboss'd. 
The poor her Convent's bounty blest, 
The pilgrim in its halls found rest. 

IV. 

Black was her garb, her rigid rule 
Reform'd on Benedictine school ; 
Her cheek was pale, her form was spare 
Vigils, and penitence austere, 
Had early quench'd the light of youth, 
But gentle was the dame, in sooth ; 
Though, vain of her religious sway, 
She loved to see her maids obey. 
Yet nothing stern was she in cell, 
And the nuns loved their Abbess well. 
Sad was this voyage to the dame ; 
Summon'd to Lindisfarne, she came, 
There, with Saint Cuthbeit's Abbot old, 
And Tynemouth's Prioress, to hold 
A chapter of St. Benedict, 
For inquisition stern and strict, 
On two apostates from the faith, 
And, if need were, to doom to deatn. 



Nought say I here of Sister Clare, 
Save this, that she was young and fair 
As yet, a novice unprofess'd, 
Lovely and gentle, but distress'd. 
She was betroth'd to one now dead, 
Or worse, who had dishonour'd fled. 
Her kinsmen bade her give her hand 
To one, who loved her for her land : 
Herself, almost heart-broken now, 
Was bent to take the vestal vow, 



And shroud within Saint Hilda's gloom, 
Her blasted hopes and wither'd bloom. 



She sate upon the galley's prow, 

And seem'd to mark the waves below ; 

Nay, seem'd, so fix'd her look and eye, 

To count them as they glided by. 

She saw them not — 'twas seeming all — ■ 

Far other scene her thoughts recall, — 

A sun-scorch'd desert, waste and bare, 

Nor waves, nor breezes, murmur'd there ; 

There saw she, where some careless hand 

O'er a dead corpse had heap'd the sand, 

To hide it till the jackals come, 

To tear it from the scanty tomb. — 

See what a woeful look was given, 

As she raised up her eyes to heaven ! 



Lovely, and gentle, and distress'd — 
These charms might tame the fiercest 

breast ; 
Harpers have sung, and poets told, 
That he, in fury uncontroll'd, 
The shaggy monarch of the wood, 
Before a virgin, fair and good, 
Hath pacified his savage mood. 
But passions in the human frame, 
Oft put the lion's rage to shame : 
And jealousy, by dark intrigue, 
With sordid avarice in league, 
Had practised with their bowl and knife, 
Against the mourner's harmless life. 
This crime was charged 'gainst those who 

lay 
Prison'd in Cuthbert's islet gray. 



And now the vessel skirts the strand 
Of mountainous Northumberland ; 
Towns, towers, and halls, successive rise, 
And catch the nuns' delighted eyes. 
Monk-Wearmouth soon behind them lay ; 
And Tynemouth's priory and bay ; 
They mark'd, amid her trees, the hall 
Of lofty Seaton-Delaval ; 
They saw the Blythe and Wansbeck floods 
Rush to the sea through sounding woods ; 
Theypass'd the tower of Widderington, 
Mother of many a valiant son ; 
At Coquet-isle their beads they tell 
To the good Saint who own'd the cell ; 
Then did the Alne attention claim, 
And Warkworth, proud of Percy's name ; 
And next, they cross' d themselves, to hear 
The whitening breakers sound so near, 



53 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Where, boiling thro' the rocks, they roar, 
On Dunstanborough's cavern'd shore ; 
Thy tower, proud Bamborough, mark'd 

they there, 
King Ida's castle, huge and square, 
From its tall rock look grimly down, 
And on the swelling ocean frown ; 
Then from the coast they bore away, 
And reach'd the Holy Island's bay. 

IX. 

The tide did now its flood-mark gain, 
And girdled in the Saint's domain : 
For, with the flow and ebb, its style 
Varies from continent to isle ; 
Dry-shod, o'er sands, twice every day, 
The pilgrims to the shrine find way ; 
Twice every day, the waves efface 
Of staves and sandall'd feet the trace. 
As to the port the galley flew, 
Higher and higher rose to view 
The Castle with its battled walls, 
The ancient Monastery's halls, 
A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile, 
Placed on the margin of the isle. 

x. 
In Saxon strength that abbey frown'd, 
With massive arches broad and round, 
That rose alternate, row and row, 
On ponderous columns, short and low, 

Built ere the art was known, 
By pointed aisle, and shafted stalk, 
The arcades of an alley'd walk 
To emulate in stone. 
On the deep walls, the heathen Dane 
Had pour'd his impious rage in vain ; 
And needful was such strength to these, 
Exposed to the tempestuous seas, 
Scourged by the winds' eternal sway, 
Open to rovers fierce as they, 
Which could twelve hundred years with- 
stand 
Winds, waves, and northern pirates' hand. 
Not but that portions of the pile, 
Rebuilded in a later style, 
Show'd where the spoiler's hand had been; 
Not but the wasting sea-breeze keen 
Had worn the pillar's carving quaint, 
And moulder'd in his niche the saint, 
And rounded, with consuming power, 
The pointed angles of each tower ; 
Yet still entire the Abbey stood, 
Like veteran, worn, but unsubdued. 



Soon as they near'd his turrets strong, 
The maidens raised Saint Hilda's song, 



And with the sea-wave and the wind, 
Their voices, sweetly shrill, combined, 

And made harmonious close ; 
Then, answering from the sandy shore, 
Half drown'd amid the breakers' roar, 

According chorus rose : 
Down to the haven of the Isle, 
The monks and nuns in order file, 
From Cuthbert's cloisters grim ; 
Banner, and cross, and relics there, 
To meet St. Hilda's maids, they bare ; 
And, as they caught the sounds on air, 

They echoed back the hymn. 
The islanders, in joyous mood, 
Rush'd emulously through the flood, 

To hale the bark to land ; 
Conspicuous by her veil and hood, 1 
Signing the cross, the Abbess stood, j 
And bless' d them with her hand. 



Suppose we now the welcome said, 
Suppose the Convent banquet made : 

All through the holy dome, 
Through cloister, aisle, and gallery, 
Wherever vestal maid might pry, 
Nor risk to meet unhallow'd eye, 

The stranger sisters roam ; 
Till fell the evening damp with dew, 
And the sharp sea-breeze coldly blew, 
For there, even summer night is chill. 
Then, having stray' d and gazed their 
fill, 

They closed around the fire ; 
And all, in turn, essay'd to paint 
The rival merits of their saint, 

A theme that ne'er can tire 
A holy maid ; for, be it known, 
That their saint's honour is their own. 

xnr. 
Then Whitby's nuns exulting told, 
How to their house three Barons bold 

Must menial service do ; 
While horns blow out a note of shame, 
And monks cry " Fye upon your name ! 
In wrath, for loss of sylvan game, 

Saint Hilda's priest ye slew." — 
' ' This, on Ascension-day, each year, 
While labouring on our harbour-pier, 
Must Herbert, Bruce, and Percy hear." — ■ 
They told, how in their convent cell 
A Saxon princess once did dwell, 

The lovely Edelfled ; 2 5 
And how, of thousand snakes, each one 
Was changed into a coil of stone, 

When holy Hilda pray'd ; 



Themselves, within their holy bound, 
j Their stony folds had often found. 
' They told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail 
I As over Whitby's towers they sail, 26 
! And, sinking down, with flutterings faint, 
I They do their homage to the saint. 

XIV. 

Nor did St. Cuthbert's daughters fail 
• To vie with these in holy tale ; 
i His body's resting-place, of old, 
| How oft their patron changed, they told ; =7 
I How, when the rude Dane burn'd their 

pile, 
! The monks fled forth from Holy Isle ; 
, O'er northern mountain, marsh, and moor, 
! From sea to sea, from shore to shore, 
! Seven years Saint Cuthbert's corpse they 
bore. 
They rested them in fair Melrose ; 

But though, alive, he loved it well, 
Not there his relics might repose ; 

For, wondrous tale to tell ! 
In his stone coffin forth he rides, 
A ponderous bark for river tides, 
Yet light as gossamer it glides, 
Downward to Tilmouth cell. 
Nor long was his abiding there, 
For southward did the saint repair ; 
Chester-le-Street and Rippon saw 
His holy corpse, ere Wardilaw 

Hail'd him with joy and fear ; 
And, after many wanderings past, 
He chose his lordly seat at last, 
Where his cathedral, huge and vast, 

Looks down upon the Wear : 
There, deep in Durham's Gothic shade, 
His relics are in secret laid ; 

But none may know the place, 
Save of his holiest servants three, 
Deep sworn to solemn secrecy, 
Who share that wondrous grace. 

XV. 

Who may his miracles declare ! 

Even Scotland's dauntless king, and heir, 

(Although with them they led 
Galwegians, wild as ocean's gale, 
And Lodon's knights, all sheathed in mail, 
And the bold men of Teviotdale,) 

Before his standard fled. 28 
'Twas he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged Alfred's falchion on the Dane, 
And turn'd the Conqueror back again, 2 ? 
When, with his Norman bowyer band, 
He came to waste Northumberland. 



XVI. 

But fain Saint Hilda's nuns would learn 
If, on a rock by Lindisfarne, 
Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
The sea-born beads that bear his name :3° 
Such tales had Whitby's fishers told, 
And said they might his shape behold, 

And hear his anvil sound ; 
A deaden'd clang, — a huge dim form, 
Seen but, and heard, when gathering 
storm 

And night were closing round. 
But this, as tale of idle fame, 
The nuns of Lindisfarne disclaim. 

XVII. 

While round the fire such legends go, 
Far different was the scene of woe, 
Where, in a secret aisle beneath, 
Council was held of life and death. 

It was more dark and lone that vault, 
Than the worst dungeon cell : 

Old Colwulf 3I built it, for his fault, 
In penitence to dwell, 
When he, for cowl and beads, laid down 
The Saxon battle-axe and crown. 
This den, which, chilling every sense 

Of feeling, hearing, sight, 
Was call'd the Vault of Penitence, 

Excluding air and light, 
Was, by the prelate Sexhelm, made 
A place of burial for such dead, 
As, having died in mortal sin, 
Might not be laid the church within. 
'Twas now a place of punishment ; 
Whence if so loud a shriek were sent, 

As reach'd the upper air, 
The hearers bless'd themselves, and said, 
The spirits of the sinful dead 

Bemoan'd their torments there. 

XVIII. 

But though, in the monastic pile, 
Did of this penitential aisle 

Some vague tradition go, 
Few only, save the Abbot, knew 
Where the place lay ; and still more few 
Were those, who had from him the clew 

To that dread vault to go. 
Victim and executioner 
Were blindfold when transported there. 
In low dark rounds the arches hung, 
From the rude rock the side-walls sprung ; 
The grave-stones, rudely sculptured o'er, 
Half sunk in earth, by time half wore, 
Were all the pavement of the floor ; 



6o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The mildew-drops fell one by one, 
With tinkling plash, upon the stone. 
A cresset,* in an iron chain, 
Which served to light this drear domain, 
With damp and darkness seem'd to strive, 
As if it scare might keep alive ; 
And yet it dimly served to show , 
The awful conclave met below. 

XIX. 

There, met to doom in secrecy, 

Were placed the heads of convents three: 

All servants of St. Benedict, 

The statutes of whose order strict 

On iron table lay ; 
In long black dress, on seats of stone, 
Behind were these three judges shown 

By the pale cresset's ray : 
The Abbess of Saint Hilda's, there, 
Sat for a space with visage bare, 
Until, to hide her bosom's swell, 
And tear-drops that for pity fell, 

She closely drew her veil : 
"Von shrouded figure, as I guess, 
By her proud mien and flowing dress, 
Is Tynemouth's haughty Prioress, 3 2 

And she with awe looks pale : 
And he, that Ancient Man, whose sight 
Has long been quench'd by age's night, 
Upon whose wrinkled brow alone, 
Nor ruth, nor mercy's trace, is shown, 

Whose look is hard and stern, — 
Saint Cuthbert's Abbot is his style ; 
For sanctity call'd, through the isle, 

The Saint of Lindisfarne. 

xx. 

Before them stood a guilty pair ; 
But, though an equal fate they share, 
Yet one alone deserves our care. 
Her sex a page's dress belied ; 
The cloak and doublet, loosely tied, 
Obscured her charms, but could not hide. 

Her cap down o'er her face she drew ; 
And, on her doublet breast, 

She tried to hide the badge of blue, 
Lord Marmion's falcon crest. 
But, at the Prioress' command, 
A Monk undid the silver band, 

That tied her tresses fair, 
And raised the bonnet from her head, 
And down her slender form they spread, 

In ringlets rich and rare. 
Constance de Beverley they know, 
Sister profess' d of Fontevraud, 



* Antique chandelier. 



Whom the church number'd with 

dead, 
For broken vows, and convent fled. 

XXI. 

When thus her face was given to view, 

(Although so pallid was her hue, 

It did a ghastly contrast bear 

To those bright ringlets glistering fair,) 

Her look composed, and steady eye, 

Bespoke a matchless constancy ; 

And there she stood so calm and pale, 

That, but her breathing did not fail, 

And motion slight of eye and head, 

And of her bosom, warranted 

That neither sense nor pulse she lacks, 

You might have thought a form of wax, 

Wrought to the very life, was there ; 

So still she was, so pale, so fair. 

XXII. 

Her comrade was a sordid soul, 

Such as does murder for a meed ; 
Who, but of fear, knows no control, 
Because his conscience, sear'd and foul.- 

Feels not the import of his deed ; 
One, whose brute-feeling ne'er aspires 
Beyond his own more brute desires. 
Such tools the Tempter ever needs, 
To do the savagest of deeds ; 
For them no vision'd terrors daunt, 
Their nights no fancied spectres haunt, 
One fear with them, of all most base, 
The fear of death, — alone finds place. 
This wretch was clad in frock and cowl, 
And shamed not loud to moan and howl. 
His body on the floor to dash, 
And crouch, like hound beneath the lash 
While his mute partner, standing near, 
Waited her doom without a tear. 
XXIII. 

Yet well the luckless wretch might shriek, 
Well might her paleness terror speak ! 
For there were seen in that dark wall, 
Two niches, narrow, deep, and tall ; — ■ 
Who enters at such grisly door, 
Shall ne'er, I ween, find exit more. 
In each a slender meal was laid, 
Of roots, of water, and of bread : 
By each, in Benedictine dress, 
Two haggard monks stood motionless ; 
Who, holding high a blazing torch, 
Show'd the grim entrance of the porch : 
Reflecting back the smoky beam, 
The dark-red walls and arches gleam. 
Hewn stones and cement were display' d, 
And building tools in order laid. 



MARMION. 



61 



XXIV. 

I These executioners were chose, 
' As men who were with mankind foes, 
j And with despite and envy fired, 
1 Into the cloister had retired ; 

Or who, in desperate doubt of grace, 
Strove, by deep penance, to efface 

Of some foul crime the stain ; 
For, as the vassals of her will, 
Such men the Church selected still, 
As either joy'd in doing ill, 

Or thought more grace to gain, 
If, in her cause, they wrestled down, 
Feelings their nature strove to own. 
By strange device were they brought there, 
They knew not how, nor knew not where. 

XXV. 

And now that blind old Abbot rose, 
To speak the Chapter's doom, 

On those the wall was to enclose, 
Alive, within the tomb, 33 

But stopp'd, because that woeful Maid, 

Gathering her powers, to speak essay'd. 

Twice she essay'd, and twice in vain ; 

Her accents might no utterance gain ; 

Nought but imperfect murmurs slip 

From her convulsed and quivering lip ; 
'Twixt each attempt all was so still, 
You seem'd to hear a distant rill— 

"Twas ocean's swells and falls ; 
For though this vault of sin and fear 
Was to the sounding surge so near, 
A tempest there you scarce could hear, 
So massive were the walls. 

XXVI. 

At length, an effort sent apart 

The blood that curdled to her heart, 

And light came to her eye, 
And colour dawn'd upon her cheek, 
A hectic and a fiutter'd streak, 
Like that left on the Cheviot peak, 

By Autumn's stormy sky ; 
And when her silence broke at length, 
Still as she spoke she gather'd strength, 

And arm'd herself to bear. 
It was a fearful sight to see 
Such high resolve and constancy, 

In form so s^ft and fair. 

XXVII. 

" 1 speak not to implore your grace ; 
Well know I, for one minute's space 

Successless might I sue : 
Nor do I speak your prayers to gain ; 
For if a death of lingering pain, 



To cleanse my sins, be penance vain, 

Vain are your masses too. — 
I listen'd to a traitor's tale, 
I left the convent and the veil ; 
For three long years I bow'd my pride, 
A horse-boy in his train to ride ; 
And well my folly's meed he gave, 
Who forfeited, to be his slave, 
All here, and all beyond the grave. — 
He saw young Clara's face more fair, 
He knew her of broad lands the heir, 
Forgot his vows, his faith forswore, 
And Constance was beloved no more. — 

'Tis an old tale, and often told ; 
But did my fate and wish agree, 

Ne'er had been read, in story old, 

Of maiden true betray'd for gold, 
That loved, or was avenged, like me ! 



"The King approved his favourite's aim ; 
In vain a rival barr'd his claim, 

Whose fate with Clare's was plight, 
For he attaints that rival's fame 
With tieason's charge — and on they came, 

In mortal lists to fight. 
Their oaths are said, 
Their prayers are pray'd, 
Their lances in the rest are laid, 

They meet in mortal shock ; 
And, hark ! the throng, with thundering 

cry, 
Shout ' Marmion, Marmion ! to the sky, 

De Wilton to the block !' 
Say ye, who preach Heaven shall decide 
When in the lists two champions ride, 

Say, was Heaven's justice here ! 
When, loyal in his love and faith, 
Wilton found overthrow or death, 

Beneath a traitor's spear? 
How false the charge, how true he fell, 
This guilty packet best can tell." — 
Then drew a packet from her breast, 
Paused, gather'd voice, and spoke the rest. 

xxix. 

"Still was false Marmion's bridal staid ; 
To Whitby's convent fled the maid, 

The hated match to shun. 
' Ho ! shifts she thus ? ' King Henry cried, 
' Sir Marmion, she shall be thy bride, 

If she were sworn a nun.' 
One way remain' d — the King's command 
Sent Marmion to the Scottish land : 
I linger'd here, and rescue plann'd 

For Clara and for me : 



62 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



This caitiff Monk, for gold, did swear, 
He would to- Whitby's shrine repair, 
And, by his drugs, my rival fair 

A saint in heaven should be. 
But ill the dastard kept his oath, 
Whose cowardice has undone us both. 



" And now my tongue the secret tells, 
Not that remorse my bosom swells, 
But to assure my soul that none 
Shall ever wed with Marmion. 
Had fortune my last hope betray'd, 
This packet, to the King convey'd, 
Had given him to the headsman's stroke, 
Although my heart that instant broke. — 
Now, men of death, work forth your will, 
For I can suffer, and be still ; 
And come he slow, or come he fast, 
It is but Death who comes at last. 



" Yet dread me, from my living tomb, 
Ye vassal slaves of bloody Rome ! 
If Marmion's late remorse should wake, 
Full soon such vengeance will he take, 
That you shall wish the fiery Dane 
Had rather been your guest again. 
Behind, a darker hour ascends ! 
The altars quake, the crosier bends, 
The ire of a despotic King 
Rides forth upon destruction's wing ; 
Then shall these vaults, so strong and deep, 
Burst open to the sea-winds' sweep ; 
Some traveller then shall find my bones 
Whitening amid disjointed stones, 
And, ignorant of priests' cruelty, 
Marvel such relics here should be." 

xxxn. 
Fix'd was her look, and stern her air : 
Back from her shoulders stream'd her hair; 
The locks, that wont her brow to shade, 
Stared up erectly from her head ; 
Her figure seem'd to rise more high ; 
Her voice, despair's wild energy 
Had given a tone of prophecy. 
Appall'd the astonish'd conclave sate ; 
With stupid eyes, the men of fate 
Gazed on the light inspired form, 
And listen'd for the avenging storm ; 
The judges felt the victim's dread ; 
No hand was moved, no word was said, 
Till thus the Abbot's doom was given, 
Raising his sightless balls to heaven : — 
■ ' Sister, let thy sorrows cease ; 
Sinful brother, part in peace ! " 



From that dire dungeon, place of doom 
Of execution too, and tomb, 

Paced forth the judges three ; 
Sorrow it were, and shame, to tell 
The butcher-work that there befell, 
When they had glided from the cell 

Of sin and misery. 

XXXIII. 

An hundred winding steps convey 
That conclave to the upper day ; 
But, ere they breathed the fresher air, 
They heard the shriekings of despair, 

And many a stifled groan : 
With speed their upward way they take, 
(Such speed as age and fear can make,) 
And cross'd themselves for terror's sake. 

As hurrying, tottering on : 
Even in the vesper's heavenly tone, 
They seem'd to hear a dying groan, 
And bade the passing knell to toll 
For welfare of a parting soul. 
Slow o'er the midnight wave it swung, 
Northumbrian rocks in answer rung ; 
To Warkworth cell the echoes roll'd, 
His beads the wakeful hermit told, 
The Bamborough peasant raised his head, 
But slept ere half a prayer he said ; 
So far was heard the mighty knell, 
The stag sprung up on Cheviot Fell, 
Spread his broad nostril to the wind, 
Listed before, aside, behind, 
Then couch'd him down beside the hind, 
And quaked among the mountain fern, 
To hear that sound to dull and stern. 



i 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
THIRD. 

TO WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ.* 

Ashestiel, Ettrick Forest. 
Like April morning clouds, that pass, 
With varying shadow, o'er the grass, 
And imitate, on field and furrow, 
Life's chequer'd scene of joy and sorrow 
Like streamlet of the mountain north, 
Now in a torrent racing forth, 
Now winding slow its silver train, 
And almost slumbering on the plain ; 



* A Judge of the Court of Session, after- 
wards, by title, Lord Kinnedder. He died in 

1822. 



MARMION. 



63 



Like breezes of the autumn day, 
Whose voice inconstant dies away, 
And ever swells again as fast, 
When the ear deems its murmur past ; 
Thus various, my romantic theme 
Flits, winds, or sinks, a morning dream. 
Yet pleased, our eye pursues the trace 
Of Light and Shade's inconstant race ; 
Pleased, views the rivulet afar, 
Weaving its maze irregular ; 
And pleased, we listen as the breeze 
Heaves its wild sigh through Autumn trees; 
Then, wild as cloud, or stream, or gale, 
Flow on, flow unconfined, my Tale ! 

Need I to thee, dear Erskine, tell 
I love the license all too well, 
In sounds now lowly, and now strong, 
To raise the desultory song ?— 
Oft, when 'mid such capricious chime, 
Some transient fit of lofty rhyme 
To thy kind judgment seem'd excuse 
For many an error of the muse, 
Oft hast thou said, " If, still mis-spent, 
Thine hours to poetry are lent, 
Go, and to tame thy wandering course, 
Quaff from the fountain at the source ; 
Approach those masters, o'er whose tomb 
Immortal laurels ever bloom : 
Instructive of the feebler bard, 
Still from the grave their voice is heard ; 
From them, and from the paths they 

show'd, 
Choose honour'd guide and practised road; 
Nor ramble on through brake and'maze, 
With harpers rude, of barbarous days. 

" Or deem'st thou not our later time 
Yields topic meet for classic rhyme? 
Hast thou no elegiac verse 
For Brunswick's venerable hearse? 
What, not a line, a tear, a sigh, 
When valour bleeds for liberty ?— 
Oh, hero of that glorious time, 
When, with unrivall'd light sublime, — 
Though martial Austria, and though all 
The might of Russia, and the Gaul, 
Though banded Europe stood her foes — 
The star of Brandenburgh arose ! 
Thou could'st not live to see her beam 
For ever quench'd in Jena's stream. 
Lamented chief! — it was not given 
To thee to change the doom of Heaven, 
And crush that dragon in its birth, 
Predestined scourge of guilty earth. 
Lamented chief l^not thine the power, 
To save in that presumptuous hour, 



When Prussia hurried to the field, 
Andsnatch'd the spear, but left the shield; 
Valour and skill 'twas thine to try, 
And, tried in vain, 'twas thine to die. 
Ill had it seem'd thy silver hair 
The last, the bitterest pang to share, 
For princedoms reft, and scutcheons riven, 
And birthrights to usurpers given; 
Thy land's, thy children's wrongs to feel, 
And witness woes thou couldst nol heal ! 
On thee relenting Heaven bestows 
For honour'd life an honour'd close ; 
And*when revolves, in time's sure change, 
The hour of Germany's revenge, 
When, breathing fury for her sake, 
Some new Arminius shall awake 
Her champion, ere he strike, shall come 
To whet his sword on Brunswick's tomb. 

" Or of the Red-Cross hero * teach, 
Dauntless in dungeon as on breach : 
Alike to him, the sea, the shore, 
The brand, the bridle, or the oar : 
Alike to hinrthe war that calls 
Its votaries to the shatter' d walls, 
Which the grim Turk, besmear'd with 

blood, 
Against the Invincible made good ; 
Or that, whose thundering voice could wake 
The silence of the polar lake, 
When stubborn Russ, and metal'd Swede, 
On the warp'd wave their death-game 

play'd ; 
Or that., where Vengeance and Affright 
Howl'd round the father of the fight, 
Who snatch'd, on Alexandria's sand, 
The conqueror's wreath with dying hand.f 

" Or, if to touch such chord be thine, 
Restore the ancient tragic line, 
And emulate the notes that rung 
From the wild harp, which silent hung 
By silver Avon's holy shore, 
Till twice an hundred years roll'd o'er ; 
When she, the bold Enchantress, % came, 
With fearless hand and heart on flame ! 
From the pale willow snatch'd the treasure, 
And swept it with a kindred measure, 
Till Avon's swans, while rung the grove 
With Montfort's hate and Basil's love, 
Awakening at the inspired strain, 
Deem'd their own Shakspeare lived again." 



* Sir Sidney Smith, 

t Sir Ralph Abercromby. 

♦ Joanna Baillie. 



64 



SCOTT 1 S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Thy friendship thus thy judgment 
wronging, 
With praises not to me belonging, 
In task more meet for mightiest powers, 
Wouldst thou engage my thriftless hours. 
But say, my Erskine, hast thou weigh'd 
That secret power by all obey'd, 
Which warps not less the passive mind, 
Its source conceal'd or undefined ; 
Whether an impulse, that has birth 
Soon as the infant wakes on earth, 
One with our feelings and our powers, 
And rather part of us than ours ; 
Or whether fitlier term'd the sway 
Of habit form'd in early day? 
Howe'er derived, its force confest 
Rules with despotic sway the breast, 
And drags us on by viewless chain, 
While taste and reason plead in vain. 
Look east, and ask the Belgian why, 
Beneath Batavia's sultry sky, 
He seeks not eager to inhale 
The freshness of the mountain gale, 
Content to rear his whiten' d wall 
Beside the dank and dull canal? 
He'll say, from youth he loved to see 
The white sail gliding by the tree. 
Or see yon weatherbeaten hind, 
Whose sluggish herds before him wind, 
Whose tatter'd plaid and rugged cheek 
His -northern clime and kindred speak ; 
Through England's laughing meads he 

goes, 
And England's wealth around him flows ; 
Ask, if it would content him well, 
At ease in those gay plains to dwell, 
Where hedge-rows spread a verdant screen, 
And spires and forests intervene, 
And the neat cottage peeps between? 
No ! not for these will he exchange 
His dark Lochaber's boundless range : 
Not for fair Devon's meads forsake 
Bennevis gray, and Garry's lake. 

Thus, while I ape the measure wild 
Of tales that charm'd me yet a child, 
Rude though they be, still with the chime 
Return the thoughts of early time ; 
And feelings, roused in life's first day, 
Glow in the line, and prompt the lay. 
Then rise those crags, that mountain tower, 
Which charm'd my fancy's wakening hour. 
Though no broad river swept along, 
To claim, perchance, heroic song ; 
Though sigh'd no groves in summer gale, 
To prompt of love a softer tale ; 



Though scarce a puny streamlet's speed 

Claim'd homage from a shepherd's reed; 

Yet was poetic impulse given, 

By the green hill and clear blue heaven. 

It was a barren scene, and wild, 

Where naked cliffs were rudely piled ; 

But ever and anon between 

Lay velvet tufts of loveliest green ; 

And well the lonely infant knew 

Recesses where the wall-flower grew, 

And honey-suckle loved to crawl 

Up the low crag and ruin'd wall. 

I deem'd such nooks the sweetest shade 

The sun in all its round survey' d ; 

And still I thought that shatter'd tower* 

The mightiest work of human power ; 

And marvell'd as the aged hind 

With some strange tale bewitch'd my mind, 

Of forayers, who, with headlong force, 

Down from that strength had spurr'd their 

horse, 
Their southern rapine to renew, 
Far in the distant Cheviots blue, 
And, home returning, fill'd the hall 
With revel, wassel-rout, and brawl. 
Methought that still with trump and clang 
The gateway's broken arches rang; 
Methought grim features, seam'd with 

scars, 
Glared through the window's rusty bars, 
And ever, by the winter hearth, 
Old tales I heard of woe or mirth, 
Of lovers' slights, of ladies' charms, 
Of witches' spells, of warriors' arms ; 
Of patriot battles, won of old 
By Wallace wight and Bruce the bold ; 
Of later fields of feud and fight, 
When, pouring from their Highland height, 
The Scottish clans, in headlong sway, 
Had swept the scarlet ranks away. 
While stretch'd at length upon the floor, 
Again I fought each combat o'er, 
Pebbles and shells, in order laid, 
The mimic ranks of war display'd ; 
And onward still the Scottish Lion bore, 
And still the scatter' d Southron fled before. 

Still, with vain fondness, could I trace, 
Anew, each kind familiar face, 
That brighten'd at our evening fire ! 
From the thatch'd mansion's gray-hair'd 
Sire.f 



* Smailholm tower, in Berwickshire, 
t Robert Scott of Sandyknows, the grand- 
father of the poet. 



MARMION. 



65 



Wise without learning, plain and good, 
And sprung of Scotland's gentler blood ; 
Whose eye, in age, quick, clear, and keen, 
Show'd what in youth its glance had been ; 
Whose doom discording neighbours 

sought, 
Content with equity unbought ; 
To him the venerable Priest, 
Our frequent and familiar guest, 
Whose life and manners well could paint 
Alike the student and the saint ; 
Alas ! whose speech too oft I broke 
With gambol rude and timeless joke : 
For I was wayward, bold, and wild, 
A self-will'd imp, a grandame's child ; 
But half a plague, and half a jest, 
Was still endured, beloved, caress'd. 

For me, thus nurtured, dost thou ask 
The classic poet's well-conn'd task? 
Nay, Erskine, nay— On the wild hill 
Let the wild heath-bell flourish still ; 
Cherish the tulip, prune the vine, 
But freely let the woodbine twine, 
And leave untrimm'd the eglantine : 
Nay, my friend, nay — Since oft thy praise 
Hath given fresh vigour to my lays ; 
Since oft thy judgment could refine 
My flatten'd thought, or cumbrous line; 
Still kind, as is thy wont, attend, 
And in the minstrel spare the friend. 
Though wild as cloud, as stream, as gale, 
Flow forth, flow unrestrain'd, my Tale ! 



CANTO THIRD. 

THE HOSTEL, OR INN. 

The livelong day Lord Marmion rode : 
The mountain path the Palmer show'd, 
By glen and streamlet winded still, 
Where stunted birches hid the rill. 
They might not choose the lowland road, 
For the Merse forayers were abroad, 
Who, fired with hate and thirst of prey, 
Had scarcely fail'd to bar their way. 
Oft on the trampling band, from crown 
Of some tall cliff, the deer look'd down ; 
On wing of jet, from his repose 
In the deep heath, the black-cock rose ; 
Sprung from the gorse the timid roe, 
Nor waited for the bending bow ; 
And when the stony path began, 
By which the naked peak they wan, 
Up flew the snowy ptarmigan. 



The noon had long been pass'd before 
They gain'd the height of Lammermoor; 
Thence winding down the northern way 
Before them, at the close of day, 
Old Gifford's towers and hamlet lay. 

II. 
No summons calls them to the tower, 
To spend the hospitable hour. 
To Scotland's camp the Lord was gone ; 
His cautious dame, in bower alone, 
Dreaded her castle to unclose, 
So late, to unknown friends or foes. 
On through the hamlet as they paced, 
Before a porch, whose front was graced 
With bush and flagon trimly placed, 

Lord Marmion drew his rein : 
The village inn seem'd large, though 

rude ; 34 
Its cheerful fire and hearty food 

Might well relieve his train. 
Down from their seats the horsemen 

spning, 
With jingling spurs the court-yard rung ; 
They bind their horses to the stall, 
For forage, food, and firing call, 
And various clamour fills the hall : 
Weighing the labour with the cost, 
Toils everywhere the bustling host. 

in. 
Soon, by the chimney's merry blaze, 
Through the rude hostel might you gaze ; 
Might see, where, in dark nook aloof, 
The rafters of the sooty roof 

Bore wealth of winter cheer ; 
Of sea-fowl dried, and solands store, 
And gammons of the tusky boar, 

And savoury haunch of deer. 
The chimney arch projected wide ; 
Above, around it, and beside, 

Were tools for housewives' hand ; 
Nor wanted, in that martial day, 
The implements of Scottish fray, 

The buckler, lance, and brand. 
Beneath its shade, the place of state, 
On oaken settle Marmion sate, 
And view'd around the blazing hearth. 
His followers mix in noisy mirth ; 
Whom with brown ale, in jolly tide, 
From ancient vessels ranged aside, 
Full actively their host supplied. 

IV. 

Theirs was the glee of martial breast, 
And laughter theirs at little jest ; 
And oft Lord Marmion deign'd to aid, 
And mingle in the mirth they made ; 
5 



66 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For though with men of high degree, 
The proudest of the proud was he, 
Yet, train'd in camps, he knew the art 
To win the soldier's hardy heart. 
They love a captain to obey, 
Boisterous as March, yet fresh as May; 
With open hand, and brow as free, 
Lover of wine and minstrelsy ; 
Ever the first to scale a tower, 
As venturous in a lady's bower : — 
Such buxom chief shall lead his host 
From India's fires to Zembla's frost. 



Resting upon his pilgrim staff, 

Right opposite the Palmer stood ; 
His thin dark visage seen but half, 

Half hidden by his hood. 
Still fix'd on Marmion was his look, 
Which he, who ill such gaze could brook, 

Strove by a frown to quell ; 
But not for that, though more than once 
Full met their stern encountering glance, 

The Palmer's visage fell. 



By fits less frequent from the crowd 
Was heard the burst of laughter loud ; 
For still, as squire and archer stared 
On that dark face and matted beard, 

Their glee and game declined. 
All gazed at length in silence drear, 
Unbroke, save when in comrade's ear 
Some yeoman, wondering in his fear, 

Thus whisper'd forth his mind : — 
"Saint Mary! saw'st thou e'er such sight? 
How pale his cheek, his eye how bright, 
Whene'er the firebrand's fickle light 

Glances beneath his cowl ! 
Full on our Lord he sets his eye ; 
For his best palfrey, would not I 

Endure that sullen scowl." 

VII. 

But Marmion, as to chase the awe 
Which thus had quell' d their hearts, who 

saw 
The ever-varying fire-light show 
That figure stern and face of woe, 

Now call'd upon a squire : — 
" Fitz-Eustace, know'st thou not some lay, 
To speed the lingering night away? 

We slumber by the fire." — 

VIII. 

" So please you," thus the youth rejoin'd, 
f Our choicest minstrel's left behind. 



Ill may we hope to please your ear, 
Accustom'd Constant's strains to hear. 
The harp full deftly can he strike, 
And wake the lover's lute alike ; 
To dear Saint Valentine, no thrush 
Sings livelier from a spring-tide bush, 
No nightingale her love-lorn tune 
More sweetly warbles to the moon. 
Woe to the cause, whate'er it be, 
Detains from us his melody, 
Lavish'd on rocks, and billows stern, 
Or duller monks of Lindisfarne. 
Now must I venture, as I may, 
To sing his favourite roundelay." 

IX. 

A mellow voice Fitz-Eustace had, 
The air he chose was wild and sad ; 
Such have I heard, in Scottish land, 
Rise from the busy harvest band, 
When falls before the mountaineer, 
On Lowland plains, the ripen' d ear. 
Now one shrill voice the notes prolong, 
Now a wild chorus swells the song : 
Oft have I listen'd, and stood still, 
As it came soften' d up the hill, 
And deem'd it the lament of men 
Who languish'd for their native glen ; 
And thought how sad would be such sound 
On Susquehana's swampy ground, 
Kentucky's wood-encumber' d brake, 
Or wild Ontario's boundless lake, 
Where heart-sick exiles, in the strain, 
Recall' d fair Scotland's hills again! 

x. 

SONG. 

Where shall the lover rest, 

Whom the fates sever 
From his true maiden's breast, 

Parted for ever? 
Where, through groves deep and high, 

Sounds the far billow, 
Where early violets die, 

Under the willow. 



Eleu loro, &c. 



CHORUS. 

Soft shall be his pillow. 



There, through the summer day, 

Cool streams are laving ; 
There, while the tempests sway, 

Scarce are boughs waving ; 
There, thy rest shalt thou take, 

Parted for ever, 
Never again to wake, 

Never, O never! 



- 



MARMION. 



67 



Eleu loro, &c. 



CHORUS. 

Never, O never! 



XI. 



Where shall the traitor rest, 

He, the deceiver, 
Who could win maiden's breast, 

Ruin, and leave her? 
In the lost battle, 

Borne down by the flying, 
Where mingles war's rattle 

With groans of the dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu loro, Sec. There shall he be lying. 

Her wing shall the eagle flap 

O'er the false-hearted ; 
His warm blood the wolf shall lap, 

Ere life be parted. 
Shame and dishonour sit 

By his grave ever, 
Blessing shall hallow it, — 

Never, O never ! 



Eleu loro, &< 



CHORUS. 

Never, O never ! 



XII. 



It ceased, the melancholy sound ; 
And silence sunk on all around. 
The air was sad ; but sadder still 

It fell on Marmion's ear, 
And plain' d as if disgrace and ill, 

And shameful death, were near. 
He drew his mantle past his face, 

Between it and the band, 
And rested with his head a space, 

Reclining on his hand. 
His thoughts I scan not ; but I ween, 
That, could their import have been seen, 
The meanest groom in all the hall, 
That e'er tied courser to a stall, 
Would scarce have wish'd to be their prey, 
For Lutterward and Fontenaye. 

XIII. 
High minds, of native pride and force, 
Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse ! 
Fear, for their scourge, mean villains have, 
Thou art the torturer of the brave ! 
Yet fatal strength they boast to steel 
Their minds to bear the wounds they feel, 
Even while they writhe beneath the smart 
Of civil conflict in the heart. 
For soon Lord Marmion raised his head, 
And, smiling, to Fitz-Eustace said, — 
" Is it not strange, that, as ye sung, 
Seem'd in mine ear a death-peal rung, 



Such as in nunneries they toll 
For some departing sister's soul? 

Say, what may this portend?" — 
Then first the Palmer silence broke, 
(The livelong day he had not spoke,) 

"The death of a dear friend." 35 

XIV. 

Marmion, whose steady heart and eye 
Ne'er changed in worst extremity ; 
Marmion, whose soul could scantly brook, 
Even from his King, a haughty look ; 
Whose accent of command controll'd, 
In camps, the boldest of the bold — 
Thought, look, and utterance fail'd him 

now, 
Fall'n was his glance, and flush'd his brow ; 

For either in the tone, 
Or something in the Palmer's look, 
So full upon his conscience strook, 

That answer he found none. 
Thus oft it haps, that when within 
They shrink at sense of secret sin, 

A feather daunts the brave ; 
A fool's wild speech confounds the wise, 
And proudest princes vail their eyes 

Before their meanest slave. 

XV. 

Well might he falter ! — By his aid 
Was Constance Beverley betray'd. 
Not that he augur'd of the doom, 
Which on the living closed the tomb : 
But, tired to hear the desperate maid 
Threaten by turns, beseech, upbraid ; 
And wroth, because, in wild despair, 
She practised on the life of Clare ; 
Its fugitive the Church he gave, 
Though not a victim, but a slave ; 
And deem'd restraint in convent strange 
Would hide her wrongs, and her revenge. 
Himself, proud Henry's favourite peer, 
Held Romish thunders idle fear, 
Secure his pardon he might hold, 
For some slight mulct of penance-gold. 
Thus judging, he gave secret way, 
When the stern priests surprised their prey. 
His train but deem'd the favourite page 
Was left behind, to spare his age ; 
Or other if they deem'd, none dared 
To mutter what he thought and heard ;, 
Woe to the vassal, who durst pry 
Into Lord Marmion's privacy I 

XVI. 
His conscience slept— he deem'd her well, 
And safe secured in distant cell ; 



6S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



But, waken'd by her favourite lay, 
And that strange Palmer's boding say, 
That fell so ominous and drear, 
Full on the object of his fear, 
To aid remorse's venom'd throes, 
Dark tales of convent-vengeance rose ; 
And Constance, late betray'd and scorn'd, 
All lovely on his soul return'd ; 
Lovely as when, at treacherous call, 
She left her convent's peaceful wall, 
Crimson' d with shame, with terror mute, 
Dreading alike escape, pursuit, 
Till love, victorious o'er alarms, 
Hid fears and blushes in his arms. 

XVII. 

"Alas!" he thought, " how changed that 

mien ! 
How changed these timid looks have been, 
Since years of guilt, and of disguise, 
Have steel'd her brow, and arm'd her eyes ! 
No more of virgin terror speaks 
The blood that mantles in her cheeks ; 
Fierce, and unfeminine, are there, 
Frenzy for joy, for grief despair ; 
And I the cause — for whom were given 
Her peace on earth, her hopes in heaven ! — 
Would," thought he, as the picture grows, 
" I on its stalk had left the rose ! 
Oh, why should man's success remove 
The very charms that wake his love ! 
Her convent's peaceful solitude 
Is now a prison harsh and rude. 
And, pent within the narrow cell, 
How will her spirit chafe and swell ! 
How brook the stern monastic laws ! 
The penance how — and I the cause ! 
Vigil and scourge — perchance even 

worse!" — 
And twice he rose to cry, "To horse !" — 
And twice his Sovereign's mandate came, 
Like damp upon a kindling flame ; 
And twice he thought, "Gave I not charge 
She should be safe, though not at large ? 
They durst not, for their island, shred 
One golden ringlet from her head." 

XVIII. 

While thus in Marmion's bosom strove 
Repentance and reviving love, 
Like whirlwinds, whose contending sway 
I've seen Loch Vennachar obey, 
Their Host the Palmer's speech had heard, 
And, talkative, took up the word : 
"Ay, reverend Pilgrim, you, who stray 
From Scotland's simple land away, 
To visit realms afar, 



Full often learn the art to know 
Of future weal, or future woe, 

By word, or sign, or star ; 
Yet might a knight his fortune hear, 
If, knight-like, he despises fear, 
Not far from hence ;— if fathers old 
Aright our hamlet legend told." — 
These broken words the menials move, 
(For marvels still the vulgar love,) 
And, Marmion giving license cold, 
His tale the host thus gladly told : — 

XIX. 

THE HOST'S TALE. 

"A Clerk could tell what years have flown 

Since Alexander fill'd our throne, 

(Third monarch of that warlike name,) 

And eke the time when here he came 

To seek Sir Hugo, then our lord: 

A braver never drew a sword ; 

A wiser never, at the hour 

Of midnight, spoke the word of power : 

The same, whom ancient records call 

The founder of the Goblin-Hall. 3* 

I would, Sir Knight, your longer stay 

Gave you that cavern to survey. 

Of lofty roof, and ample size, 

Beneath the castle deep it lies : 

To hew the living rock profound, 

The floor to pave, the arch to round, 

There never toil'd a mortal arm, 

It all was wrought by word and charm ; 

And I have heard my grandsire say, 

That the wild clamour and affray 

Of those dread artisans of hell, 

Who labour' d under Hugo's spell, 

Sounded as loud as ocean's war, 

Among the caverns of Dunbar. 



"The King Lord Gifford's castle sought, 
Deep labouring with uncertain thought ; 
Even then he muster'd all his host, 
To meet upon the western coast : 
For Norse and Danish galleys plied 
Their oars within the frith of Clyde. 
There floated Haco's banner trim, 37 
Above Norweyan warriors grim, 
Savage of heart, and large of limb ; 
Threatening both continent and isle, 
Bute, Arran, Cunninghame, and Kyle. 
Lord Gifford, deep beneath the ground, 
Heard Alexander's bugle sound, 
And tarried not his garb to change, 
But, in his wizard habit strange, 
Came forth , — a quaint and fearful sight ; 
His mantle lined with fox-skins white ; 



MARMION. 



69 



His high and wrinkled forehead bore 
A pointed cap, such as of yore 
Clerks say that Pharaoh's Magi wore : 
His shoes were mark'd with cross and spell, 
Upon his breast a pentacle ; 3 8 
His zone, of virgin parchment thin, 
Or, as some tell, of dead man's skin, 
Bore many a planetary sign, 
Combust, and retrograde, and trine ; 
And in his hand he held prepared, 
A naked sword without a guard. 



" Dire dealings with the fiendish race 
Had mark'd strange lines upon his face ; 
Vigil and fast had worn him grim, 
His eyesight dazzled seem'd and dim, 
As one unused to upper day ; 
Even his own menials with dismay 
Beheld, Sir Knight, the grisly Sire, 
In his unwonted wild attire ; 
Unwonted, for traditions run, 
He seldom thus beheld the sun. — 
' I know," he said — his voice was hoarse, 
And broken seem'd its hollow force, — 
* I know the cause, although untold, 
Why the King seeks his vassal's hold : 
Vainly from me my liege would know 
His kingdom's future weal or woe ; 
But yet, if strong his arm and heart, 
His courage may do more than art. 

XXII. 

" ' Of middle air the demons proud, 
Who ride upon the racking cloud, 
Can read, in fix'd or wandering star, 
The issue of events afar ; 
But still their sullen aid withhold, 
Save when by mightier force controll'd. 
Such late I summon'd to my hall ; 
And though so potent was the call, 
That scarce the deepest nook of hell 
I deem'd a refuge from the spell, 
Yet, obstinate in silence still - 
The haughty demon mocks my skill 
But thou— who little know'st thy might, 
As born upon that blessed night * 
When yawning graves, and dying groan, 
Proclaim'd hell's empire overthrown, — 
With untaught valour shalt compel 
Response denied to magic spell.' 
'Gramercy,' quoth our Monarch free, 
1 Place him but front to front with me, 
And, by this good and honour'd brand, 
The gift of Cceur-de- Lion's hand, 
Soothly I swear, that, tide what tide, 
The demon shall a buffet bide.'— 



His bearing bold the wizard view'd, 
And thus, well pleased, his speech re* 

new'd : — 
'There spoke the blood of Malcolm!— 

mark : 
Forth pacing hence, at midnight dark, 
The rampart seek, whose circling crown 
Crests the ascent of yonder down : 
A southern entrance shalt thou find ; 
There halt, and there thy bugle wind, 
And trust thine elfin foe to see, 
In guise of thy worst enemy : 
Couch then thy lance, and spur thy steed — 
Upon him ! and Saint George to speed ! 
If he go down, thou soon shalt know 
Whate'er these airy sprites can show ; — 
If thy heart fail thee in the strife, 
I am no warrant for thy life.' 

XXIII. 

" Soon as the midnight bell did ring, 
Alone, and arm'd, forth rode the King 
To that old camp's deserted round : 
Sir Knight, you well might mark the 

mound, 
Left hand the town, — the Pictish race, 
The trench, long since, in blood did trace ; 
The moor around is brown and bare, 
The space within is green and fair. 
The spot our village children know, 
For there the earliest wild-flowers grow ; 
But woe betide the wandering wight, 
That treads its circle in the night ! 
The breadth across, a bowshot clear, 
Gives ample space for full career : 
Opposed to the four points of heaven, 
By four deep gaps are entrance given. 
The southernmost our Monarch past, 
Halted, and blew a gallant blast ; 
And on the north, within the ring, 
Appear'd the form of England's King, 
Who then, a thousand leagues afar, 
In Palestine waged holy war : 
Yet arms like England's did he wield, 
Alike the leopards in the shield, 
Alike his Syrian courser's frame, 
The rider's length of limb the same : 
Long afterwards did Scotland know, 
Fell Edward * was her deadliest foe. 

XXIV. 

' ' The vision made our Monarch start, 
But soon he mann'd his noble heart, 
And in the first career they ran, 
The Elfin Knight fell, horse and man ; 



Edward I. of England. 



■"-p 



70 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet did a splinter of his lance 
Through Alexander's visor glance, 
And razed the skin — a puny wound. 
The King, light leaping to the ground, 
With naked blade his phantom foe 
Compell'd the future war to show. 
Of Largs he saw the glorious plain, 
Where still gigantic bones remain, 

Memorial of the Danish war ; 
Himself he saw, amid the field, 
On high his brandish' d war-axe wield, 

And strike proud Haco from his car, 
While all around the shadowy Kings 
Denmark's grim ravens cower'd their wings. 
'Tis said, that, in that awful night, 
Remoter visions met his .'sight, 
Foreshowing future conquests far, 
When our sons' sons wage northern war ; 
A royal city, tower and spire, 
Redden' d the midnight sky with fire, 
And shouting crews her navy bore, 
Triumphant, to the victor shore.* 
Such signs may learned clerks explain, 
They pass the wit of simple swain. 

XXV. 

"The joyful King turn'd home again, 
Headed his host, and quell'd the Dane ; 
But yearly, when return'd the night 
Of his strange combat with the sprite, 

His wound must bleed and smart ; > 
Lord Gifford then would gibing say, 
' Bold as ye were, my liege, ye pay 

The penance of your start.' 
Long since, beneath Dunfermline's nave, 
King Alexander fills his grave, 

Our Lady give him rest ! 
Yet still the knightly spear and shield 
The Elfin Warrior doth wield, 

Upon the brown hill's breast ; 4° 
And many a knight hath proved his chance, 
In the charm'd ring to break a lance, 

But all have foully sped ; 
Save two, as legends tell, and they 
Were Wallace wight, and Gilbert Hay. — 

Gentles, my tale is said." 
XXVI. 

The quaighs f were deep, the liquor strong, 
And on the tale the yeoman- throng 
Had made a comment sage and long, 

But Marmion gave a sign : 
And, with their lord, the squires retire ; 
The rest, around the hostel fire, 

* An allusion to the battle of Copenhagen, 
1801. 

t Quaigh, a wooden cup. 



Their drowsy limbs recline : 
For pillow, underneath each head, 
The quiver and the targe were laid. 
Deep slumbering on the hostel floor, 
Oppress'd with toil and ale, they snore : 
The dying flame, in fitful change, 
Threw on the group its shadows strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart, and nestling in the hay 
Of a waste loft, Fitz-Eustace lay ; 
Scarce, by the pale moonlight, were seen 
The foldings of his mantle green : 
Lightly he dreamt, as youth will dream, 
Of sport by thicket, or by stream. 
Of hawk or hound, of ring or glove, 
Or, lighter yet, of lady's love. 
A cautious tread his slumber broke, 
And, close beside him, when he woke, 
In moonbeam half, and half in gloom, 
Stood a tall form, with nodding plume; 
But, ere his dagger Eustace drew, 
His master Marmion's voice he knew. 

XXVIII. 

— " Fitz-Eustace ! rise, I cannot rest ; 
Yon churl's wild legend haunts my breast, 
And graver thoughts have chafed my 

mood: 
The air must cool my feverish blood ; 
And fain would I ride forth, to see 
The scene of Elfin chivalry. 
Arise, and saddle me my steed ; 
And, gentle Eustace, take good heed 
Thou dost not rouse these drowsy slaves ; 
I would not, that the prating knaves 
Had cause for saying, o'er their ale, 
That I could credit such a tale." — 
Then softly down the steps they slid, 
Eustace the stable door undid, 
And, darkling, Marmion's steed array'd, 
While, whispering, thus the Baron said :— 

XXIX. 

" Did'st never, good my youth, hear tell, 

That on the hour when I was born, 
Saint George, who graced my sire's 

chapelle, 
Down from his steed of marble fell, 

A weary wight forlorn ? 
The flattering chaplains all agree, 
The champion left his steed to me. 
I would, the omen's truth to show, 
That I could meet this Elfin Foe ! 
Blithe would I battle, for the right 
To ask one question at the sprite : — 
Vain thought ! for elves, if elves there be, 
An empty race, by fount or sea, 






MARMION. 



'Ji 



To dashing waters dance and sing, 
Or round the green oak wheel their ring. 
Thus speaking, he his steed bestrode, 
And from the hostel slowly rode. 



Fitz-Eustace follow'd him abroad, 
And mark'd him pace the village road, 

And listen'd to his horse's tramp, 
Till, by the lessening sound, 

He judged that of the Pictish camp 
Lord Marmion sought the round. 
Wonder itseem'd, in the squire's eyes, 
That one, so wary held, and wise, — 
Of whom 'twas said, he scarce received 
For gospel, what the church believed, — 

Should, stirr'd by idle tale, 
Ride forth in silence of the night, 
As hoping half to meet a sprite, 

Array'd in plate and mail. 
For little did Fitz-Eustace know, 
That passions, in contending flow, 

Unfix the strongest mind; 
Wearied from doubt to doubt to flee, 
We welcome fond credulity, 

Guide confident, though blind. 

XXXI. 

Little for this Fitz-Eustace cared, 
But, patient, waited till he heard, 
At distance, prick'd to utmost speed, 
The foot-tramp of a flying steed, 

Come town-ward rushing on ; 
First, dead, as if on turf it trode, 
Then, clattering on the village road, — 
In other pace than forth he yode,* 

Return'd Lord Marmion. 
Down hastily he sprung from selle, 
And, in his haste, wellnigh he fell ; 
To the squire's hand the rein he threw, 
And spoke no word as he withdrew : 
But yet the moonlight did betray, 
The falcon-crest was soil'd with clay ; 
And plainly might Fitz-Eustace see, 
By stains upon the charger's knee, . 
And his left side, that on the moor 
He had not kept his footing sure. 
Long musing on these wondrous signs, 
At length to rest the squire reclines, 
Broken and short ; for still, between, 
Would dreams of terror intervene : 
Eustace did ne'er so blithely mark 
The first notes of the morninsr lark. 



Yode, used by old poets for went. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FOURTH. 

TO JAMES SKENE, ESQ.f 

Ashes tie I, Ettrick Forest. 
An ancient Minstrel sagely said, 
"Where is the life which late we led ? " 
That motley clown in Arden wood, 
Whom humorous Jacques with envy 

view'd, 
Not even that clown could amplify, 
On this trite text, so long as I . 
Eleven years we now may tell, 
Since we have known each other well ; 
Since, riding side by side, our hand 
First drew the voluntary brand, 
And sure, through many a varied scene, 
Unkindness never came between. 
Away these winged years have flown, 
To join the mass of ages gone ; 
And though deep mark'd, like all below, 
With chequer'd shades of joy and woe; 
Though thou o'er realms and seas hast 

ranged, 
Mark'd cities lost, and empires changed, 
While here, at home, my narrower ken 
Somewhat of manners saw, and men ; 
Though varying wishes, hopes, and fears, 
Fever'd the progress of these years, 
Yet now, days, weeks, and months, but 

seem 
The recollection of a dream, 
So still we glide down to the sea 
Of fathomless eternity. 

Even now it scarcely seems a day, 
Since first I tuned this idle lay ; 
A task so often thrown aside, 
When leisure graver cares denied, 
That now, November's dreary gale, 
Whose voice inspired my opening tale, 
That same November gale once more 
Whirls the dry leaves on Yarrow shore. 
Their vex'd boughs streaming to the sky, 
Once more our naked birches sigh, 
And Blackhouse heights, and Ettrick Pen, 
Have donn'd their wintry shrouds again : 
And mountain dark, and flooded mead, 
Bid us forsake the banks of Tweed. 
Earlier than wont along the sky, 
Mix'd with the rack, the snow mists fly ; 
The shepherd, who in summer sun, 
Had something of our envy won, 



t James Skene, Esq., of Rubislaw, Aber- 
deenshire. 



72 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As thou with pencil, I with pen, 

The features traced of hill and glen ;— 

He who, outstretch'd the live-long day, 

At ease among the heath-flowers lay, 

View'd the light clouds with vacant look, 

Or slumber'd o'er his tatter'd book, 

Or idly busied him to guide 

His angle o'er the lessen'd tide ; — 

At midnight now, the snowy plain 

Finds sterner labour for the swain. 

When red hath set the beamless sun, 
Through heavy vapours dark and dun ; 
When the tired ploughman, dry and warm, 
Hears, half asleep, the rising storm 
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, 
Against the casement's tinkling pane ; 
The sounds that drive wild deer, and fox, 
To shelter in the brake and rocks, 
Are warnings which the shepherd ask 
To dismal and to dangerous task. 
Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 
The blast may sink in mellowing rain ; 
Till, dark above, and white below, 
Decided drives the flaky snow, 
And forth the hardy swain must go. 
Long, with dejected look and whine, 
To leave the hearth his dogs repine ; 
Whistling and cheering them to aid, 
Around his back he wreathes the plaid : 
His flock he gathers, and he guides, 
To open downs, and mountain sides, 
Where, fiercest though the tempest blow, 
Least deeply lies the drift below. 
The blast, that whistles o'er the fells, 
Stiffens his locks to icicles ; 
Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 
His cottage window seems a star, — 
Loses its feeble gleam, — and then 
Turns patient to the blast again, 
And, facing to the tempest's sweep, 
Drives through the gloom his lagging sheep. 
If fails his heart, if his limbs fail. 
Benumbing death is in the gale : 
His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, 
Close to the hut, no more his own, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 
The morn may find the stiffen'd swain : 4 1 
The widow sees, at dawning pale, 
His orphans raise their feeble wail ; 
And, close beside him, in the snow, 
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
Couches upon his master's breast, 
And licks his cheek to break his rest. 

Who envies now the shepherd's lot, 
His healthy fare, his rural cot, 



His summer couch by greenwood tree, 
His rustic kirn's* loud revelry, 
His native hill-notes, tuned on high, 
To Marion of the blithesome eye ; 
His crook, his scrip, his oaten reed, 
And all Arcadia's golden creed ? 

Changes not so with us, my Skene, 
Of human life the varying scene? 
Our youthful summer oft we see 
Dance by on wings of game and glee, 
While the dark storm reserves its rage, 
Against the winter of our age : 
As he, the ancient Chief of Troy, 
His manhood spent in peace and joy ; 
But Grecian fires, and loud alarms, 
Call'd ancient Priam forth to arms. 
Then happy those, since each must drain 
His share of pleasure, share of pain, — 
Then happy those, beloved of Heaven, 
To whom the mingled cup is given ; 
Whose lenient sorrows find relief, 
Whose joys are chasten'd by their grief. 
And such a lot, my Skene, was thine, 
When thou of late, wert doom'd to 

twine, — 
Just when thy bridal hour was by, — 
The cypress with the myrtle tie. 
Just on thy bride her Sire had smiled, 
And bless'd the union of his child, 
When love must change its joyous cheer, 
And wipe affection's filial tear. 
Nor did the actions next his end, 
Speak more the father than the friend. 
Scarce had lamented Forbes 42 paid 
The tribute to his Minstrel's shade ; 
The tale of friendship scarce was told, 
Ere the narrator's heart was cold — 
Far may we search before we find 
A heart so manly and so kind ! 
But not around his honour'd urn, 
Shall friends alone and kindred mourn ; 
The thousand eyes his care had dried, 
Pour at his name a bitter tide ; 
And frequent falls the grateful dew, 
For benefits the world ne'er knew. 
If mortal charity dare claim 
The Almighty's attributed name, 
Inscribe above his mouldering clay, 
"The widow's shield, the orphan's stay/ 
Nor, though it wake thy sorrow, deem 
My verse intrudes on this sad theme ; 
For sacred was the pen that wrote, 
"Thy father's friend forget thou not:" 



Scottish harvest-home. 



MARMION. 



73 



And grateful title may I plead, 
For many a kindly word and deed, 
To bring my tribute to his grave : — 
Tis little— but 'tis all I have. 

To thee, perchance, this rambling strain 
Recalls our summer walks again ; 
When, doing nought, — and, to speak true, 
Not anxious to find aught to do, — 
The wild unbounded hills we ranged, 
While oft our talk its topic changed, 
And, desultory as our way, 
Ranged, unconfined, from grave to gay. 
Even when it flagg'd, as oft will chance, 
No effort made to break its trance, 
We could right pleasantly pursue 
Our sports in social silence too ; 
Thou bravely labouring to portray 
The blighted oak's fantastic spray ; 
I spelling o'er, with much delight, 
The legend of that antique knight, 
Tirante by name, yclep'd the White. 
At either's feet a trusty squire, 
Pandour and Camp,* with eyes of fire, 
Jealous, each other's motions view'd, 
And scarce suppress'd their ancient feud. 
The laverock f whistled from the cloud; 
The stream was lively, but not loud ; 
From the whitethorn the May-flower shed 
Its dewy fragrance round our head : 
Not Ariel lived more merrily 
Under the blossom'd bough, than we. 

And blithesome nights, too, have been 

ours, 
When Winter stript the summer's bowers. 
Careless we heard, what now I hear, 
The wild blast sighing deep and drear, 
When fires were bright, and lamps beam'd 

gay, 
And ladies tuned the lovely lay ; 
And he was held a laggard soul, 
Who shunn'd to quaff the sparkling bowl. 
Then he, whose absence we deplore, % 
Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore, 
The longer miss'd, bewail 'd the more; 

And thou, and I, and dear loved R ,§ 

And one whose name I may not say, — 

For not Mimosa's tender tree 

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he, — 

In merry chorus well combined, 

With laughter drown'd the whistling wind. 

* A favourite bull-terrier of Sir Walter's. 

t Laverock, the lark. 

t Colin Mackenzie, of Portmore. 

6 Sir William Rae, Bart., of St. Catharine's. 



Mirth was within ; and Care without 
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout. 
Not but amid the buxom scene 
Some grave discourse might intervene — 
Of the good horse that bore him best, 
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest : 
For, like mad Tom's, || our chiefest care, 
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear. 
Such nights we've had ; and, though the 

game 
Of manhood be more sober tame, 
And though the field-day, or the drill, 
Seem less important now — yet still 
Such may we hope to share again. 
The sprightly thought inspires my strain ! 
And mark, how, like a horseman true, 
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew. 



CANTO FOURTH. 

THE CAMP. 



Eustace, I said, did blithely mark 
The first notes of the merry lark. 
The lark sang shrill, the cock he crew, 
And loudly Marmion's bugles blew, 
And with their light and lively call, 
Brought groom and yeoman to the stall. 
Whistling they came, and free of heart, 

But soon their mood was changed ; 
Complaint was heard on every part, 

Of something disarranged. 
Some clamour'd loud for armour lost; 
Some brawl'd and wrangled with the host ; 
" By Becket's bones," cried one, " I fear, 
That some false Scot has stolen my 

spear!" — 
Young Blount, Lord Marmion's second 

squire, 
Found his steed wet with sweat and mire ; 
Although the rated horse-boy sware, 
Last night he dress'd him sleek and fair. 
While chafed the impatient squire like 

thunder, 
Old Hubert shouts, in fear and wonder. — 
" Help, gentle Blount ! help, comrades all ! 
Bevis lies dying in his stall : 
To Marmion who the plight dare tell, 
Of the good steed he loves so well ? " 
Gaping for fear and ruth, they saw 
The charger panting on his straw ; 



|| Common name for an idiot ; ?*«umed by 
Edgar in King Lear. 



74 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till one, who would seem wisest, cried — 
* ' What else but evil could betide, 
With that cursed Palmer for our guide ? 
Better we had through mire and bush 
Been lantern-led by Friar Rush." 43 
II. 

Fitz-Eustace, who the cause but guess'd, 
Nor wholly understood, 

His comrades' clamorous plaints sup- 
press'd ; 
He knew Lord Marmion's mood. 

Him, ere he issued forth, he sought, 

And found deep plunged in gloomy 
thought, 
And did his tale display 

Simply as if he knew of nought 
To cause such disarray. 
Lord Marmion gave attention cold, 
Nor marvell'd at the wonders told, — 
Pass'd them as accidents of course, 
And bade his clarions sound to horse. 

in. 
Young Henry Blount, meanwhile, the cost 
Had reckon'd with their Scottish host ; 
And, as the charge he cast and paid, 
" 111 thou deserv'st thy hire," he said ; 
" Dost see, thou knave, my horse's plight? 
Fairies have ridden him all the night, 

And left him in a foam ! 
I trust that soon a conjuring band, 
With English cross and blazing brand, 
Shall drive the devils from this land, 

To their infernal home : 
For in this haunted den, I trow, 
All night they trample to and fro." 
The laughing host look'd on the hire, — 
' ' Gramercy, gentle southern squire, 
And if thou comest among the rest, 
With Scottish broadsword to be blest, 
Sharp be the brand, and sure the blow, 
And short the pang to undergo." 
Here stay'd their talk, — for Marmion 
Gave now the signal to set on. 
The Palmer showing forth the way, 
They journey'd all the morning day. 

IV. 

The green-sward way was smooth and 

good, 
Through Humbie's and through Saltoun's 

wood ; 
A forest glade, which, varying still, 
Here gave a view of dale and hill, 
There narrower closed, till, over-head, 
A vaulted screen the branches made. 
"A pleasant path," Fitz-Eustace said; 



"Such as where errant-knights might see 
Adventures of high chivalry ; 
Might meet some damsel flying fast, 
With hair unbound and looks aghast ; 
And smooth and level course were here, 
In her defence to break a spear. 
Here, too, are twilight nooks and dells ; 
And oft, in such, the story tells, 
The damsel kind, from danger freed, 
Did grateful pay her champion's meed." 
He spoke to cheer Lord Marmion's mind : 
Perchance to show his lore design' d ; 

For Eustace much had pored 
Upon a huge romantic tome, 
In the hall window of his home, 
Imprinted at the antique dome 

Of Caxton, or De Worde.* 
Therefore he spoke, — but spoke in vain, 
For Marmion answer'd nought again. 

v. 
Now sudden, distant trumpets shrill, 
In notes prolong'd by wood and hill, 

Were heard to echo far ; 
Each ready archer grasp'd his bow, 
But by the flourish soon they know, 

They breathed no point of war. 
Yet cautious, as in foeman's land, 
Lord Marmion's order speeds the band, 

Some opener ground to gain ; 
And scarce a furlong had they rode, 
When thinner trees, receding, show'd 

A little woodland plain. 
Just in that advantageous glade, 
The halting troop a line had made, 
As forth from the opposing shade 

Issued a gallant train. 

VI. 

First came the trumpets at whose clang 

So late the forest echoes rang ; 

On prancing steeds they forward press'd, 

With scarlet mantle, azure vest ; 

Each at his trump a banner wore, 

Which Scotland's royal scutcheon bore : 

Heralds and pursuivants, by name 

Bute, Islay, Marchmount, Rothsay, came, 

In painted tabards, proudly showing 

Gules, Argent, Or, and Azure glowing, 

Attendant on a King-at-arms, 
Whose hand the armorial truncheon held 
That feudal strife had often quell 'd, 

When wildest its alarms. 



* Willliam Caxton was the earliest English 
printer; born in Kent, a.d. 1412 ; Wynken de 
Worde was his successor. 



MARMION. 



75 



He was a man of middle age ; 
In aspect manly, grave, and sage, 

As on King's errand come ; 
But in the glances of his eye, 
A penetrating, keen, and sly 

Expression found its home ; 
The flash of that satiric rage, 
Which, bursting on the early stage, 
Branded the vices of the age, 

And broke the keys of Rome. 
On milk-white palfrey forth he paced ; 
His cap of maintenance was graced 

With the proud heron-plume. 
From his steed's shoulder, loin, and 
breast, 
Silk housings swept the ground, 
With Scotland's arms, device, and crest, 

Embroider' d round and round. 
The double tressure might you see, 

First by Achaius borne, 
The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, 
And gallant unicorn. 
So bright the King's armorial coat, 
That scarce the dazzled eye could note, 
In living colours, blazon'd brave, 
The Lion, which his title gave ; 
A train which well beseem'd his state, 
But all unarm'd, around him wait. 
Still is thy name in high account, 
And still thy verse has charms, 
Sir David Lindesay of the Mount, 
Lord Lion King-at-armsM* 



Down from his horse did Marmion spring, 

Soon as he saw the Lion-King ; 

For well the stately Baron knew 

To him such courtesy was due, 

Whom royal James himself had crown'd, 

And on his temples placed the round 

Of Scotland's ancient diadem : 
And wet his brow with hallow'd wine, 
And on his finger given to shine 

The emblematic gem. 
Their mutual greetings duly made, 
The Lion thus his message said : — 
"Though Scotland's King hath deeply 

swore 
Ne'er to knit faith with Henry more, 
And strictly hath forbid resort 
From England to his royal court ; 
Yet, for he knows Lord Marmion's name, 
And honours much his warlike fame, 
My liege hath deem'd it shame, and lack 
Of courtesy, to turn him back ; 



And, by his order, I, your guide, 
Must lodging fit and fair provide, 
Till finds King James meet time to see 
The flower of English chivalry." 



Though inly chafed at this delay, 
Lord Marmion bears it as he may, 
The Palmer, his mysterious guide, 
Beholding thus his place supplied, 

Sought to take leave in vain ; 
Strict was the Lion King's command, 
That none, who rode in Marmion's band, 

Should sever from the train : 
' ' England has here enow of spies 
In Lady Heron's witching eyes ; " 
To Marchmount thus, apart, he said, 
But fair pretext to Marmion made. 
The right-hand path they now decline, 
And trace against the stream the Tyne. 

x. 

At length up that wild dale they wind, 

Where Crichtoun Castle 45 crowns the 
bank; 
For there the Lion's care assign'd 

A lodging meet for Marmion's rank. 
That Castle rises on the steep 

Of the green vale of Tyne : 
And far beneath, where slow theycreep. 
From pool to eddy, dark and deep, 
Where alders moist, and willows weep, 

You hear her streams repirfe. 
The towers in different ages rose ; 
Their various architecture shows 

The builders' various hands ; 
A mighty mass, that could oppose, 
When deadliest hatred fired its foes, 

The vengeful Douglas bands. 



Crichtoun ! though now thy miry court 
But pens the lazy steer and sheep, 
Thy turrets rude, and totter'd Keep, 

Have been the minstrel's loved resort. 

Oft have I traced, within thy fort, 

Of mouldering shields the mystic sense, 
Scutcheons of honour, or pretence, 

Quarter'd in old armorial sort, 
Remains of rude magnificence. 

Nor wholly yet had time defaced 
Thy lordly gallery fair ; 

Nor yet the stony cord unbraced, 

Whose twisted knots, with roses laced, 
Adorn thy ruin'd stair. 

Still rises unimpair'd below, 

The court-yard's graceful portico ; 



76 



scorrs poetical works. 



Above its cornice, row and row 
Of fair hewn facets richly show 
Their pointed diamond form, 
Though there but houseless cattle go, 

To shield them from the storm. 
And, shuddering, still may we explore, 
Where oft whilom were captives pent, 
The darkness of thy Massy More ; 
Or, from thy grass-grown battlement, 
May trace, in undulating line, 
The sluggish mazes of the Tyne. 

XII. 

Another aspect Crichtoun show'd, 
As through its portal Marmion rode ; 
But 5 r et 'twas melancholy state 
Received him at the outer gate ; 
For none were in the Castle then, 
But women, boys, or aged men. 
With eyes scarce dried, the sorrowing dame , 
To welcome noble Marmion, came ; 
Her son, a stripling twelve years old, 
Proffer'd the Baron's rein to hold ; 
For each man that could draw a sword 
Had march' d that morning with their lord, 
Earl Adam Hepburn/ 6 he who died 
On Flodden, by his sovereign's side. 
Long may his Lady look in vain ! 
She ne'er shall see his gallant train 
Come sweeping back through Crichtoun- 

Dean. 
'Twas a brave race, before the name 
Of hated Bofhwell stain'd their fame. 



And here two days did Marmion rest, 
With every rite that honour claims, 
Attended as the King's own guest : — 
Such the command of Royal James, 
Who marshall'd then his land's array, 
Upon the Borough-moor that lay. 
Perchance he would not foeman's eye 
Upon his gathering host should pry, 
Till full prepared was every band 
To march against the English land. 
Here while they dwelt, did Lindesay's wit 
Oft cheer the Baron's moodier fit ; 
And, in his turn, he knew to prize 
Lord Marm ion's powerful mind, and wise. — 
Train'd in the lore of Rome and Greece, 
And policies of war and peace. 



It chanced, as fell the second night, 
That on the battlements they walk'd, 

And, by the slowly fading light 
Of varying topics talk'd ; 



And, unaware, the Herald-bard 

Said, Marmion might his toil have spared, 

In travelling so far ; 
For that a messenger from heaven 
In vain to James had counsel given 

Against the English war ; w 
And, closer question'd, thus he told 
A tale, which chronicles of old 
In Scottish story have enroll'd : — 

XV. 

SIR DAVID LINDESAY'S TALE. 

1 ' Of all the palaces so fair, 

Built for the royal dwelling, 
In Scotland, far beyond compare 

Linlithgow is excelling ; 
And in its park in jovial June, 
How sweet the merry linnet's tune, 

How blithe the blackbird's lay ! 
The wild-buckbells * 8 from ferny brake, 
The coot dives merry on the lake, 
The saddest heart might pleasure take 

To see all nature gay. 
But June is to our sovereign dear 
The heaviest month in all the year : 
Too well his cause of grief you know, 
June saw his father's overthrow.*' 
Woe to the traitors, who could bring 
The princely boy against his King ! 
Still in his conscience burns the sting. 
In offices as strict as Lent, 
King James's June is ever spent. 

XVI. 

"When last this ruthful month was come, 
And in Linlithgow's holy dome 

The King, as wont, was praying ; 
While, for his royal father's soul, 
The chanters sung, the bells did toll, 

The Bishop mass was saying — 
For now the year brought round again 
The day the luckless king was slain — 
In Katharine's aisle the Monarch knelt, 
With sackcloth-shirt, and iron belt, 

And eyes with sorrow streaming ; 
Around him in their stalls of state, 
The Thistle's Knight-Companions sate, 

Their banners o'er them beaming. 
I too was there, and, sooth to tell, 
Bedeafen'd with the jangling knell, 
Was watching where the sunbeams fell, 

Through the stain'd casement gleaming* 
But, while I mark'd what next befell, 

It seem'd as I were dreaming. 
Stepp'd from the crowd a ghostly wight, 
In azure gown, with cincture white ; 



i 
1 



MARMION. 



77 



His forehead bald, his head was bare, 
Down hung at length his yellow hair. — 
Now, mock me not, when, good my Lord, 
I pledge to you my knightly word, 
That, when I saw his placid grace, 
His simple majesty of face, 
His solemn bearing, and his pace 

So stately gliding on, — 
Seem'd to me ne'er did limner paint 
So just an image of the Saint, 
Who propp'd the Virgin in her faint, — 

The loved Apostle John ! 

XVII. 

«• He stepp'd before the Monarch's chair, 
And stood with rustic plainness there, 

And little reverence made ; 
Nor head, nor body, bovv'd nor bent, 
But on the desk his arm he leant, 

And words like these he said, 
In a low voice, but never tone, 
So thrill'd through vein, and nerve and 

bone : — 
' My mother sent me from afar, 
Sir King, to warn thee not to war, — 

Woe waits on thine array ; 
If war thou wilt, of woman fair, 
Her witching wiles and wanton snare, 
James Stuart, doubly warn'd, beware : 

God keep thee as he may ! ' 
The wondering Monarch seem'd to seek 

For answer, and found none ; 
And when he raised his head to speak, 
The monitor was gone. 
The Marshal and myself had cast 
To stop him as he outward pass'd ; 
But, lighter than the whirlwind's blast, 

He vanish 'd from our eyes, 
Like sunbeam on the billow cast, 

That glances but, and dies." 

XVIII. 

While Lindesay told his marvel strange, 

The twilight was so pale, 
He mark'd not Marmion'scolour change, 

WhUe listening to the tale ; 
But, after a suspended pause, 
The Baron spoke: — "Of Nature's laws 

So strong I held the force, 
That never superhuman cause 
Could e'er control their course. 
And, three days since, had judged your 

aim 
Was but to make your guest your game. 
But I have seen, since past the Tweed, 
What much has changed my sceptic creed, 
And made me credit aught." — He staid, 
And seem'd to wish his words unsaid : 



But, by that strong emotion press'd, 
Which prompts us to unload our breast, 

Even when discovery's pain, 
To Lindesay did at length unfold 
The tale his village host had told, 

At Gifford, to his train. 
Nought of the Palmer says he there, 
And nought of Constance, or of Clare ; 
The thoughts, which broke his sleep, he 

seems 
To mention but as feverish dreams. 

XIX. 

"In vain," said he, "to rest I spread 
My burning limbs, and couch'd my head : 

Fantastic thoughts return'd ; 
And, by their wild dominion led, 

My heart within me burn'd. 
So sore was the delirious goad, 
I took my steed, and forth I rode, 
And, as the moon shone bright and cold, 
Soon reach 'd the camp upon the wold. 
The southern entrance I pass'd through, 
And halted, and my bugle blew. 
Methought an answer met my ear, — 
Yet was the blast so low and drear, 
So hollow, and so faintly blown, 
It might be echo of my own. 

xx. 
' ' Thus judging, for a little space 
I listen'd, ere I left the place ; 

But scarce could trust my eyes, 
Nor yet can think they served me true, 
When sudden in the ring I view, 
In form distinct of shape and hue, 

A mounted champion rise. — 
I've fought, Lord- Lion, many a day, 
In single fight, and mix'd affray, 
And ever, I myself may say, 

Have borne me as a knight ; 
But when this unexpected foe 
Seem'd starting from the gulf below, — 
I care not though the truth I show,*— 

I trembled with affright ; 
And as I placed in rest my spear, 
My hand so shook for very fear, 

I scarce could couch it right. 

XXI. 

"Why need my tongue the issue tell? 
We ran our course, — my charger fell ; — 
What could he 'gainst the shock of hell? — 

I roll'd upon the plain. 
High o'er my head, with threatening hand, 
The spectre shook his naked brand, — 

Yet did the worst remain : 
My dazzled eyes I upward cast, — 
Not opening hell itself could blast 



7S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



, 



Their sight, like what I saw ! 
Full on his face the moonbeam strook, — 
A face could never be mistook ! 
I knew the stern vindictive look, 

And held my breath for awe. 
I saw the face of one who, fled 
To foreign climes, has long been dead, — 

I well believe the last ; 
For ne'er, from vizor raised, did stare 
A human warrior, with a glare 

So grimly and so ghast. 
Thrice o'er my head he shook the blade ; 
But when to good Saint George I pray'd, 
(The first time e'er I ask'd his aid,) 

He plunged it in the sheath ; 
And, on his courser mounting light, 
He seem'd to vanish from my sight : 
The moonbeam dropp'd, and deepest night 

Sunk down upon the heath. — 

'Twere long to tell what cause I have 
To know his face, that met me there, 

Call'd by his hatred from the grave, 
To cumber upper air : 
Dead or alive, good cause had he 
To be my mortal enemy." 

XXII. 

Marvell'd Sir David of the Mount ; 
Then, learn'd in story, 'gan recount 

Such chance had happ'd of old, 
When once, near Norham, there did fight 
A spectre fell of fiendish might, 
In likeness of a Scottish knight, 

With Brian Bulmer bold, 
And train'd him nigh to disallow 
The aid of his baptismal vow. 
' ' And such a phantom, too, 'tis said, 
With Highland broadsword, targe, and 
plaid, 

And fingers, red with gore, 
Is seen in Rothiemurcus glade, 
Or where the sable pine-trees shade 
Dark Tomantoul, and Auchnaslaid, 

Dromouchty, or Glenmore. 
And yet, whate'er such legends say, 
Of warlike demon, ghost, or fay, 

On mountain, moor, or plain, 
Spotless in faith, in bosom bold, 
True son of chivalry should hold 

These midnight terrors vain ; 
For seldom have such spirits power 
To harm, save in the evil hour, 
When guilt we meditate within, 
Or harbour unrepented sin."— 
Lord Marmion turn'd him half aside, 
And twice to clear his voice he tried, 

Then press'd Sir David's hand,— 



But nought, at length, in answer said ; 
And here their farther converse staid, 

Each ordering that his band 
Should bowne them with the rising clay, 
To Scotland's camp to take their way. — 

Such was the King's command. 

XXIII. 

Early they took Dun-Edin's road, . 
And I could trace each step they trode. 
Hill, brook, nor dell, nor rock, nor stone, 
Lies on the path to me unknown. 
Much might it boast of storied lore; 
But, passing such digression o'er, 
Suffice it that the route was laid 
Across the furzy hills of Braid. 
They pass'd the glen and scanty rill, 
And climb'd the opposing bank, until 
They gain'd the top of Blackford Hill. 

XXIV. 

Blackford ! on whose uncultured breast, 

Among the broom, and thorn, and 
whin, 
A truant-boy, I sought the nest, 
Or listed, as I lay at rest, 

While rose, on breezes thin, 
The murmur of the city crowd, 
And, from his steeple jangling loud, 

Saint Giles's mingling din. 
Now, from the summit to the plain, 
Waves all the hill with yellow grain ; 

And o'er the landscape as I look, 
Nought do I see unchanged remain, 

Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook. 
To me they make a heavy moan, 
Of early friendships past and gone. 

XXV. 

But different far the change has been, 

Since Marmion, from the crown 
Of Blackford, saw that martial scene 

Upon the bent so brown : 
Thousand pavilions, white as snow, 
Spread all the Borough-moorS below, 

Upland, and dale, and down : — 
A thousand did I say ? I ween, 
Thousands on thousands there were seen, 
That chequer'd all the heath between 

The streamlet and the town ; 
In crossing ranks extending far, 
Forming a camp irregular ; 
Oft giving way, where still there stood 
Some relics of the old oak wood, 
That darkly huge did intervene, 
And tamed the glaring white with green : 
In these extended lines there lay 
A martial kingdom's vast array. 



MARMIOX. 



79 



XXVI. 

For from Hebudes, dark with rain, 
To eastern Lodon's fertile plain, 
And from the Southern Redswire edge, 
To farthest Rosse's rocky ledge ; 
From west to east, from south to north, 
Scotland sent all her warriors forth. 
Marmion might hear the mingled hum 
Of myriads up the mountain come; 
The horses' tramp, and tingling clank, 
Where chiefs review'd their vassal rank, 

And charger's shrilling neigh ; 
And see the shifting lines advance, 
While frequent flash'd, from shield and 
lance, 

The sun's reflected ray. 

XXVII. 

Thin curling in the morning air, 

The wreaths of failing smoke declare 

To embers now the brands decay'd, 

Where the night-watch their fires had made. 

They saw, slow rolling on the plain, 

Full many a baggage-cart and wain, 

And dire artillery's clumsy car, 

By sluggish oxen tugg'd to war ; 

And there were Borth wick's Sisters Seven,* 

And culverins which France had given. 

IU-omen'd gift ! the guns remain 

The conqueror's spoil on Flodden plain. 

XXVIII. 

Nor mark'd they less, where in the air 
A thousand streamers flaunted fair ; 

Various in shape, device, and hue, 

Green, sanguine, purple, red, and blue, 
Broad, narrow, swallow-tail'd, and square, 
Scroll, pennon, pensil, bandrol, there 

O'er the pavilions flew. 
Highest and midmost, was descried 
The royal banner floating wide ; 

The staff, a pine-tree, strong and 
straight, 
Pitch'd deeply in a massive stone, 
Which still in memory is shown, 

Yet bent beneath the standard's weight 
Whene'er the western wind unroll' d, 

With toil, the huge and cumbrous fold, 
And gave to view the dazzling field, 
Where, in proud Scotland's royal shield, 

The ruddy lion ramp'd in gold.5 1 

XXIX. 

Lord Marmion view'd the landscape 

bright, — 
He view'd it with a chiefs delight, — 



* Seven culverins, so called from him who 
cast them. 



Until within him burn'd his heart, 

And lightning from his eye did part, 
As on the battle-day ; 

Such glance did falcon never dart, 
When stooping on his prey. 
"Oh! well, Lord-Lion, hast thou said, 
Thy King from warfare to dissuade 

Were but a vain essay : 
For, by St. George, were that host mine, 
Not power infernal nor divine, 
Should once to peace my soul incline, 
Till I had dimm'd their armour's shine 

In glorious battle-fray ! " 
Answer' d the Bard, of milder mood : 
" Fair is the sight, — and yet 'twere good, 

That kings would think withal, 
When peace and wealth their land has 

bless'd, 
'Tis better to sit still at rest, 

Than rise, perchance to fall." 

XXX. 

Still on the spot Lord Marmion stay'd, 

For fairer scene he ne'er survey'd. 
When sated with the martial show 
That peopled all the plain below, 
The wandering eye could o'er it go, 
And mark the distant city glow 
With gloomy splendour red ; 
For on the smoke-wreaths , huge and slow, 
That round her sable turrets flow, 
The morning beams were shed, 
And tinged them with a lustre proud, 
Like that which streaks a thunder-cloud. 

Such dusky grandeur clothed the height, 

Where the huge Castle holds its state, 
And all the steep slope down, 

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky, 

Piled deep and massy, close and high, 
Mine own romantic town ! 

But northward far, with purer blaze, 

On Ochil mountains fell the rays, 

And as e&ch heathy top they kiss'd, 

It gleam'd a purple amethyst. 

Yonder the shores of Fife you saw ; 

Here Preston-Bay and Berwick-Law : 
And, broad between them roil'd, 

The gallant Frith the eye might note, 

Whose islands on its besom float, 
Like emeralds chased in gold. 

Fitz-Eustace' heart felt closely pent ; 

As if to give his rapture vent, 

The spur he to his charger lent, 
And raised his bridle hand, 

And, making demi-volte in air, 

Cried, "Where's the coward that would 
not dare 



8o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To fight for such a land ? " 
The Lindesay smiled his joy to see ; 
Nor Mansion's frown repress'd his glee. 



Thus while they look'd, a flourish proud, 
Where mingled trump and clarion loud, 

And fife, and kettle-drum, 
And sackbut deep, and psaltery, 
And war-pipe with discordant cry, 
And cymbal clattering to the sky, 
Making wild music bold and high, 

Did up the mountain come ; 
The whilst the bells, with distant chime, 
Merrily told the hour of prime, 
And thus the Lindesay spoke : 
" Thus clamour still the war-notes when 
The king to mass his way has ta'en, 
Or to St. Katharine's of Sienne, 

Or Chapel of Saint Rocque. 
To you they speak of martial fame ; 
But me remind of peaceful game, 

When blither was their cheer, 
Thrilling in Falkland-woods the air, 
In signal none his steed should spare, 
But strive which foremost might repair 

To the downfall of the deer. 

XXXII. 

"Nor less," he said, — "when looking 

forth, 
I view yon Empress of the North 

Sit on her hilly throne ; 
Her palace's imperial bowers, 
Her castle, proof to hostile powers, 
Her stately halls and holy towers — 

Nor less," he said, " I moan, 
To think what woe mischance may bring, 
And how these merry bells may ring 
The death-dirge of our gallant king ; 

Or with the larum call 
The burghers fqrth to watch and ward, 
'Gainst Southern sack and fires to guard 

Dun-Edin's leaguer'd wall. — 
But not for my presaging thought, 
Dream conquest sure, or cheaply bought ! 

Lord Marmion, I say nay : 
God is the guider of the field, 
He breaks the champion's spear and 
shield, — 

But thou thyself shalt say, 
When joins yon host in deadly stowre, 
That England's dames m ust weep in bower, 

Her monks the death-mass sing ; 
For never saw'st thou such a power 

Led on by such a King." — 



And now, down winding to the plain, 
The barriers of the camp they gain, 

And there they made a stay. — 
There stays the Minstrel, till he fling 
His hand o'er every Border string, 
And fit his harp the pomp to sing, 
Of Scotland's ancient Court and King, 

In the succeeding lay. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
FIFTH. 

TO GEORGE ELLIS, ESQ.* 

Edinburgh. 
When dark December glooms the day, 
And takes our autumn joys away ; 
When short and scant thesunbeam throws, 
Upon the weary waste of snows, 
A cold and profitless regard, 
Like patron on a needy bard ; 
When silvan occupation's done. 
And o'er the chimney rests the gun, 
And hang, in idle trophy, near, 
The game-pouch, fishing-rod, and spear; 
When wiry terrier, rough and grim, 
And greyhound, with his length of limb, 
And pointer, now employ'd no more, 
Cumber our parlour's narrow floor ; 
When in his stall the impatient steed 
Is long condemn'd to rest and feed ; 
When from our snow-encircled home, 
Scarce cares the hardiest step to roam, 
Since path is none, save that to bring 
The needful water from the spring ; 
When wrinkled news-page, thrice conn'd 

o'er, 
Beguiles the dreary hour no more, 
And darkling politician, cross'd, 
Inveighs against the lingering post, 
And answering housewife sore complains 
Of carriers' snow-impeded wains ; 
When such the country cheer, I come, 
Well pleased, to seek our city home ; 
For converse, and for books, to change 
The Forest's melancholy range, 
And welcome, with renew'd delight, 
The busy day and social night. 

Not here need my despo'nding rhyme 
Lament the ravages of time, 
As erst by Newark's riven towers, 
And Ettrick stripp'd of forest bowers. 



* The learned editor of the 
Ancient English Romances." 



Specimens of 






MARMIOtf. 



3j 



True, — Caledonia's Queen is changed, S 3 
Since on her dusky summit ranged, 
Within its steepy limits pent, 
By bulwark, line, and battlement, 
And flanking towers, and laky flood, 
Guarded and garrison' d she stood, 
Denying entrance or resort, 
Save at each tall embattled port ; 
Above whose arch, suspended, hung 
Portcullis spiked with iron prong. 
That long is gone, — but not so long 
Since, early closed, and opening late, 
Jealous revolved the studded gate, 
Whose task, from eve to morning tide, 
A wicket churlishly supplied. 
Stern, then, and steel-girt was thy brow, 
Dun-Edin ! O, how alter'd now, 
When safe amid thy mountain court 
Thou sit'st, like Empress at her sport, 
And liberal, unconfined, and free, 
Flinging thy white arms to the sea. 
For thy dark cloud, with umber'd lower, 
That hung o'er cliff, and lake, and tower, 
Thou gleam'st against the western ray 
Ten thousand lines of brighter day. 

Not she, the Championess of old, 
In Spenser's magic tale, enroll'd, 
She, for the charmed spear renown'd, 
Which forced each knight to kiss the 

ground, — 
Not she morechanged, when placed at rest, 
What time she was Malbecco's guest, 
She gave to flow her maiden vest ; 
When from the corslet's grasp relieved, 
Free to the sight her bosom heaved ; 
Sweet was her blue eye's modest smile, 
Erst hidden by the aventayle ; 
And down her shoulders graceful roll'd 
Her locks profuse, of paly gold . 
They who whilom, in midnight fight, 
Had marvell'd at her matchless might, 
No less her maiden charms approved, 
But looking liked, and liking loved. 
The sight could jealous pangs beguile, 
And charm Malbecco's cares a while ; 
And he, the wandering Squire of Dames, 
Forgot his Columbella's claims, 
And passion, erst unknown, could gain 
The breast of blunt Sir Satyrane ; . 
Nor durst light Paridel advance, 
Bold as he was, a looser glance. 
She charm'd, at once, and tamed the heart, 
Incomparable Britomarte ! * 



* The Maiden Knight in Spenser's " Fairy 
Qcecn," book iii. canto 9. 



So thou, fair City! disarray'd 
Of battled wall, and rampart's aid, 
As stately seem'st, but lovelier far 
Than in that panoply of war. 
Nor deem that from thy fenceless throne 
Strength and security are flown ; 
Still, as of yore, Queen of the North ! 
Still canst thou send thy children forth. 
Ne'er readier at alarm-bell's call 
Thy burghers rose to man thy wall, 
Than now, in danger, shall be thine, 
Thy dauntless voluntary line ; 
For fosse and turret proud to stand, 
Their breasts the bulwarks of the land. 
Thy thousands, train'd to martial toil, 
Full red would stain their native soil, 
Ere from thy mural crown there fell 
The slighest knosp, or pinnacle. 
And if it come, — as come it may, 
Dun-Edin ! that eventful day, — 
Renown'd for hospitable deed, 
That virtue much with Heaven may plead, 
In patriarchal times whose care 
Descending angels deign'd to share ; 
That claim may wrestle blessings down 
On those vvho fight for The Good Town, 
Destined in every age to be 
Refuge of injured royalty ; 
Since first, when conquering York arose, 
To Henry meek she gave repose,'!' 
Till late, with wonder, grief, and awe, 
Great Bourbon's relics, sad she saw. 

Truce to these thoughts ! — for, as they 
rise, 
How gladly I avert mine eyes, 
Bodings, or true or false, to change, 
For Fiction's fair romantic range, 
Or for tradition's dubious light, 
That hovers 'twixt the day and night : 
Dazzling alternately and dim, 
Her wavering lamp I'd rather trim, 
Knights, squires, and lovely dames to see, 
Creation of my fantasy, 
Than gaze abroad on reeky fen, 
And make of mists invading men. 
Who loves not more the night of June 
Than dull December's gloomy noon ? 
Tht moonlight than the fog of frost ? 
And can we say, which cheats the most ? 

But who shall teach my harp to gain 
A sound of the romantic strain, 



t Henry VI. of England, who sought refuge 
in Scotland after the fatal battle of Towton. 
" The Meek Usurper." see Gray. 
6 



8a 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



Whose Anglo-Norman tones whilere 

Could win the royal Henry's ear, 

Famed Beauclerc call'd, for that he loved 

The minstrel * and his lay approved? 

Who shall these lingering notes redeem, 

Decaying on Oblivion's stream ; 

Such notes as from the Breton tongue 

Marie f translated, Blondel sung? — 

O ! born, Time's ravage to repair, 

And make the dying muse thy care ; 

Who, when his scythe her hoary foe 

Was poising for the final blow, 

The weapon from his hand could wring, 

And break his glass, and shear his wing, 

And bid, reviving in his strain, 

The gentle poet live again ; 

Thou, who canst give to lightest lay 

An unpedantic moral gay, 

Nor less the dullest theme bid flit 

On wings of unexpected wit ; 

In letters as in life approved, 

Example honour'd, and beloved, — 

Dear Ellis ! to the bard impart 

A lesson of thy magic art, 

To win at once the head and heart, — 

At once to charm, instruct, and mend, 

My guide, my pattern, and my friend ! 

Such minstrel lesson to bestow 
Be long thy pleasing task, — but..O ! 
No more by thy example teach, 
— What few can practise, all can preach, — 
With even patience to endure 
Lingering disease, and painful cure, 
And boast affliction's pangs subdued 
By mild and manly fortitude. 
Enough, the lesson has been given : 
Forbid the repetition, Heaven ! 

Come listen, then ! for thou hast known, 
And loved the Minstrel's varying tone, 
Who, like his Border sires of old, 
Waked a wild measure rude and bold, 
Till Windsor's oaks, and Ascot plain, 
With wonder heard the northern strain. 
Come listen ! bold in thy applause, 
The bard shall scorn pedantic laws ; 
And, as the ancient art could stain 
Achievements on the storied pane, 
Irregularly traced and plann'd, 
But yet so glowing and so grand.^— 
So shall he strive, in changeful hue, 
Field, feast, and combat, to renew, 

* Philip de Than. 

t Marie of France,- who translated the 
" Lais " of Brittany into French. She resided 
at the Court of Henry III. of England, to 
whom she dedicated her book. 



And loves, and arms, and harpers' glee, 
And all the pomp of chivalry. 



CANTO FIFTH. 

THE COURT. 
I. 

The train has left the hills of Braid ; 
The barrier guard have open made 
(So Lindesay bade) the palisade, 

That closed the tented ground ; 
Their men the warders backward drew, 
And carried pikes as they rode through, 

Into its ample bound. 
Fast ran the Scottish warriors there, 
Upon the Southern band to stare, 
And envy with their wonder rose, 
To see such well-appointed foes ; 
Such length of shafts, such mighty bows, 
So huge, that many simply thought, 
But for a vaunt such weapons wrought ; 
And little deem'd their force to feel, 
Through links of mail, and plates of steel, 
When rattling upon Flodden vale, 
The cloth-yard arrows flew like hail.53 

ii. 
Nor less did Marmion's skilful view 
Glance every line and squadron through ; 
And much he marvell'd one small land 
Could marshal forth such various band : 

For men-at-arms were here, 
Heavily sheathed in mail and plate, 
Like iron towers for strength and weight, 
On Flemish steeds of bone and height, 

With battle-axe and spear. 
Young knights and squires, a lighter train, 
Practised their chargers on the plain, 
By aid of leg, of hand, and rein, 

Each warlike feat to show, 
To pass, to wheel, the croupe to gain, 
And high curvett, that not in vain 
The sword sway might descend amain ', 

On foeman's casque below. 
He saw the hardy burghers there 
March arm'd, on foot, with faces bare,S4 

For vizor they wore none, 
Nor waving plume, nor crest of knight ; 
But burnished were their corslets bright, 
Their brigantines, and gorgets light, 

Like very silver shone. 
Long pikes they had for standing fight, 

Two-handed swords they wore, 
And many wielded mace of weight, 

And bucklers bright they bore. 



MARMION. 



«3 



On foot the yeoman too, but dress'd 
In his steel-jack, a swarthy vest, 

With iron quilted well ; 
Each at his back (a slender store) 
His forty days' provision bore, 

As feudal statutes tell. 
His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, 5S 
A crossbow there, a hagbut here, 

A dagger-knife, and brand. 
Sober he seem'd, and sad of cheer, 
As loth to leave his cottage dear, 

And march to foreign strand ; 
Or musing, who would guide his steer, 

To till the fallow land. 
Yet deem not in his thoughtful eye 
Did aught of dastard terror lie ; 

More dreadful far his ire, 
Than theirs, who, scorning danger's name, 
In eager mood to battle came, 
Their valour like light straw on flame, 

A fierce but fading fire. 



Not so the Borderer : — bred to war, 
He knew the battle's din afar, 

And joy'd to hear it swell. 
His peaceful day was slothful ease ; 
Nor harp, nor pipe, his ear could please 

Like the loud slogan yell. 
On active steed, with lance and blade, 
The light-arm' d pricker plied his trade, — 

Let nobles fight for fame ; 
Let vassals follow where they lead, 
Burghers to guard their townships bleed, 

But war's the Borderer's game. 
Their gain, their glory, their delight, 
To sleep the day, maraud the night, 

O'er mountain, moss, and moor; 
Joyful to fight they took their w ay, 
Scarce caring who might win the day, 

Their booty was secure. 
These, as Lord Marmion's train pass'd by, 
Look'd on at first with careless eye, 
Nor marvell'd aught, well taught to know 
The form and force of English bow. 
But when they saw the Lord array" d 
In splendid arms and rich brocade, 
Each Borderer to his kinsman said, — 

"Hist, Ringan ! seest thou there ! 
Canst guess which road they'll homeward 

ride ? — 
O ! could we but on Border side, 
By Eusedale glen, or Liddell's tide, 

Beset a prize so fair ! 
That fangless Lion, too, their guide, 
Might chance to lose his glistering hide ; 



Brown Maudlin, of that doublet pied, 
Could make a kirtle rare." 



Next, Marmion mark'd the Celtic race, 
Of different language, form, and face, 

A various race of man ; 
Just then the Chiefs their tribes array'd, 
And wild and garish semblance made, 
The chequer'd trews, and belted plaid, 
And varying notes the war-pipes bray'd, 

To every varying clan ; 
Wild through their red or sable hair 
Look'd out their eyes with savage stare, 

On Marmion as he pass'd ; 
Their legs above the knee were bare ; 
Their frame was sinewy, short, and spare, 

And harden'd to the blast ; 
Of taller race, the chiefs they own 
Were by the eagle's plumage known. 
The hunted red-deer's undress'd hide 
Their hairy buskins well supplied ; 
The graceful bonnet deck'd their head : 
Back from their shoulders hung the plaid ; 
A broadsword of unwieldy length, 
A dagger proved for edge and strength, 

A studded targe they wore, 
And quivers, bows, and shafts, — but, O ! 
Short was the shaft, and weak the bow, 

To that which England bore. 
The Isles-men carried at their backs 
The ancient Danish battle-axe. 
They raised a wild and wondering cry, 
As with his guide rode Marmion by. 
Loud were their clamouring tongues, as 

when 
The clanging sea-fowl leave the fen, 
And, with their cries discordant mix'd, 
Grumbled and yell'd the pipes betwixt. 



Thus through the Scottish camp they 

pass'd, 
And reach'd the City gate at last, 
Where all around, a wakeful guard, 
Arm'd burghers kept their watch and ward. 
Well had they cause of jealous fear, 
When lay encamp'd, in field so near, 
The Borderer and the Mountaineer. 
As through the bustling streets they go, 
All was alive with martial show : 
At every turn, with dinning clang, 
The armourer's anvil clash'd and rang; 
Or toil'd the swarthy smith, to wheel 
The bar that arms the charger's heel ; 
Or axe, or falchion, to the side 
Of jarring grindstone was applied. 



S4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Page, groom, and squire, with hurrying 

pace, 
Through street, and lane, and market- 
place, 

Bore lance, or casque, or sword ; 
While burghers, with important face, 

Described each new-come lord, 
Discuss'd his lineage, told his name, 
His following, and his warlike fame. 
The Lion led to lodging meet, 
Which high o'erlook'd the crowded street ; 

There must the Baron rest, 
Till past the hour of vesper tide, 
And then to Holy-Rood must ride, — 

Such was the King's behest. 
Meanwhile the Lion's care assigns 
A banquet rich, and costly wines, 

To Marmion and his train ;5 6 
And when the appointed hour succeeds, 
The Baron dons his peaceful weeds, 
And following Lindesay as he leads, 

The palace-halls they gain. 

VII. 

Old Holy-Rood rung merrily 
That night, with wassell, mirth, and glee; 
King James within her princely bower, 
Feasted the Chiefs of Scotland's power, 
Summon'd to spend the parting hour; 
For he had charged, that his array 
Should southward march by break of day. 
Well loved that splendid monarch aye 

The banquet and the song, 
By day the tourney, and by night 
The merry dance, traced fast and light, 
The maskers quaint, the pageant bright, 

The revel loud and long. 
This feast outshone his banquets past, 
It was his blithest — and his last. 
The dazzling lamps, from gallery gay, 
Cast on the Court a dancing ray ; 
Here to the harp did minstrels sing ; 
There ladies touch'd a softer string ; 
With long-ear'd cap, and motley vest, 
The licensed fool retail'd his jest ; 
His magic tricks the juggler plied ; 
At dice and draughts the gallants vied ; 
While some, in close recess apart, 
Courted the ladies of their heart, 

Nor courted them in vain ; 
For often, in the parting hour, 
Victorious Love asserts his power 

O'er coldness and disdain ; 
And flinty is her heart, can view 
To battle march a lover true — 
Can hear, perchance, his last adieu, 

Nor own her share of pain. 



Through this mix'd crowd of glee and game, 
The King to greet Lord Marmion came, 

While, reverent, all made room. 
An easy task it was, I trow, 
King James's manly form to know. 
Although, his courtesy to show, 
He doff'd to Marmion bending low, 

His broider'd cap and plume. 
For royal was his garb and mien, 

His cloak, of crimson velvet piled, 

Trimm'd with the fur of martin wild ; 
His vest of changeful satin sheen, 

The dazzled eye beguiled ; 
His gorgeous collar hung adown, 
Wrought with the badge of Scotland's 

crown, 
The thistle brave, of old renown : 
His trusty blade, Toledo right, 
Descended from a baldric bright ; 
White were his buskins, on the heel 
His spurs inlaid of gold and steel ; 
His bonnet, all of crimson fair, 
Was button'd with a ruby rare : 
And Marmion deem'd he ne'er had seen 
A prince of such a noble mien. 



The monarch's form was middle size ; 
For feat of strength, or exercise, 

Shaped in proportion fair ; 
And hazel was his eagle eye, 
And auburn of the darkest dye, 

His short curl'd beard and hair. 
Light was his footstep in the dance, 

And firm his stirrup in the lists ; 
And, oh ! he had that merry glance, 

That seldom lady's heart resists. 
Lightly from fair to fair he flew, 
And loved to plead, lament, and sue; — 
Suit lightly won, and short-lived pain, 
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain. 

I said he joy'd in banquet bower ; 
But, 'mid his mirth, 'twas often strange, 
How suddenly his cheer would change, 

His look o'ercast and lower, 
If, in a sudden turn, he felt 
The pressure of his iron belt, 
That bound his breast in penance pain, 
In memory of his father slain. 57 
Even so 'twas strange how, evermore, 
Soon as the passing pang was o'er 
Forward he rush'd, with double glee, 
Into the stream of revelry : 
Thus, dim-seen object of affright 
Startles the courser in his flight, 



MARMION. 



85 



And half he halts, half springs aside ; 
But feels the quickening spur applied, 
And, straining on the tighten*d rein, 
Scours doubly swift o'er hill and plain. 



O'er James's heart, the courtiers say, 
Sir Hugh the Heron's wife held sway ;5 8 

To Scotland's Court she came, 
To be a hostage for her lord, 
Who Cessford's gallant heart had gored, 
And with the King to make accord, 

Had sent his lovely dame. 
Nor to that lady free alone 
Did the gay King allegiance own ; 

For the fair Queen of France 
Sent him a turquois ring and glove, 
And charged him, as her knight and love, 

For her to break a lance ; 59 
And strike three strokes with Scottish 

brand, 
And march three miles on Southron land, 
And bid the banners of his band 

In English breezes dance. 
And thus, for France's Queen he drest 
His manly limbs in mailed vest; 
And thus admitted English fair 
His inmost counsels still to share ; 
And thus for both, he madly plann'd 
The ruin of himself and land ! 

And yet, the sooth to tell, 
Nor England's fair, nor France's Queen, 
Were worth one pearl-drop, bright and 
sheen , 

From Margaret's eyes that fell, — 
His own Queen Margaret, who, in Lith- 

gow's bower, 
All lonely sat, and wept the weary hour. 

xr. 
The Queen sits lone in Lithgow pile, 

And weeps the weary day, 
The war against her native soil, 
Her Monarch's risk in battle broil : — 
And in gay Holy-Rood, the while, 
Dame Heron rises with a smile 

Upon the harp to play. 
Fair was her rounded arm, as o'er 

The strings her fingers flew ; 
And as she touch'd and tuned them all, 
Even her bosom's rise and fall 

Was plainer given to view ; 
For, all for heat, was laid aside 
Her wimple, and her hood untied. 
And first she pitch'd her voice to sing, 
Then glanced her dark eye on the King, 
And then around the silent ring ; 



And laugh'd, and blush'd, and oft did say 

Her pretty oath, by Yea and Nay, 

She could not, would not, durst not play I 

At length, upon the harp, with glee, 

Mingled with arch simplicity, 

A soft, yet lively air she rung, 

While thus the wily lady sung : — 

XII. 

LOCHINVAR. 

LADY HERON'S SONG. 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the 

west, 
Through all the wide Border his steed 

was the best ; 
And save his good broadsword he weapons 

had none, 
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. 
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, 
There never was knight like the young 

Lochinvar. 

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not 

for stone, 
He swam the Eske river where ford there 

was none ; 
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant 

came late : 
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, 
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave 

Lochinvar. 

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, 
Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and 

brothers, and all : 
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on 

his sword, 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said 

never a word,) 
" O come ye in peace here, or come ye in 

war, 
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 

Lochinvar?" — 

1 ' I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you 

denied ; — 
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like 

its tide — 
And now am I come, with this lost love of 

mine, 
To lead but one measure, drink one cup 

of wine. 
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely 

by far, 
That would gladlv be bride to the young 

Lochinvar." 



86 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The bride kiss'd the goblet : the knight 

took it up, 
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw 

down the cup. 
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd 

up to sigh, 
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her 

eye. 
He took her soft hand, ere her mother 

could bar, — 
" Now tread we a measure!" said young 

Lochinvar. 



And of her royal conquest too, 
A real or feign' d disdain : 
Familiar was the look, and told, 
Marmion and she were friends of old. 
The King observed their meeting eyes, 
With something like displeased surprise ; 
For monarchs ill can rivals brook, 
Even in a word, or smile, or look. 
Straight took he forth the parchment 

broad, 
Which Marmion'shigh commission show'd: 
' ' Our Borders sack'd by many a raid, 
Our peaceful liege-men robb'd," he said : 
I "On day of truce our Warden slain, 
I Stout Barton kill'd, his vassals ta'en — 
J Unworthy were we here to reign, 
i Should these for vengeance cry in vain ; 
I Our full defiance, hate, and scorn, 
j Our herald has to Henry borne." 



So stately his form, and so lovely her face, 
That never a hall such a galliard did grace ; 
While her mother did fret, and her father 

did fume, 
And the bridegroom stood dangling his 

bonnet and plume ; 
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ' ' 'Twere 

better by far, 
To have match'd our fair cousin with j He paused.^ and led where Douglas stood, 

young Lochinvar." 

One touch to her hand, and one word in 

her ear, 
When they reach 'd the hall-door, and the 

charger stood near ; 
So light to the croupe the fair lady he 

swung, 
So light to the saddle before her he sprung ! 
"She is won! we are gone, over bank, 

bush, and scaur ; 
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," 

quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting 'mong Graemes 'of 

the Netherby clan ; 
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they 

rode and they ran ; 
There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 

Lee, 
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did 

they see. 
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, 
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young 

Lochinvar ? 

XIII. 

The Monarch o'er the siren hung 

And beat the measure as she sung ; 
And, pressing closer, and more near, 
He whisper'd praises in her ear. 
In loud applause" the courtiers vied ; 
And ladies wink'd, and spoke aside. 

The witching dame to Marmion threw 
A glance, where seem'd to reign 

The pride that claims applauses due 



XIV, 



I And with stern eye the pageant view'd 
j I mean that Douglas, sixth of yore, 
Who coronet of Angus bore, 
And, when his blood and heart were high, 
Did the third James in camp defy, 
And all his minions led to die 

On Lauder's dreary flat : 
Princes and favourites long grew tame, 
And trembled at the homely name 

Of Archibald Bell-the-Cat ; to 
The same who left the dusky vale 
Of Hermitage in Liddisdale, 

Its dungeons, and its towers, 
Where Both well's turrets brave the air, 
And Bothwell bank is blooming fair, 

To fix his princely bowers. 
Though now, in age, he had laid down 
His armour for the peaceful gown 

And for a staff his brand, 
Yet often would flash forth the fire, 
That could, in youth, a monarch's ire 

And minion's pride withstand ; 
And even that day, at council board, 

Unapt to soothe his sovereign's mood, 

Against the war had Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal lord. 61 



His giant-form, like ruin'd tower, 
Though fall'n its muscles' brawny vaunt, 
Huge-boned, and tall, and grim, and 
gaunt, 

Seem'd o'er the gaudy scene to lower : 
His locks and beard in silver grew ; 
His eyebrows kept their sable hue. 



MARMION. 



37 



Near Douglas when the Monarch stood, 
His bitter speech he thus pursued : 
"Lord Marmion, since these letters say 
That in the North you needs must stay, 

While slightest hopes of peace remain, 
Uncourteous speech it were, and stern, 
To say — Return to Lindisfarne, 

Until my herald come again. — 
Then rest you in Tantallon Hold ; 62 
Your host shall be the Douglas bold, — 
A chief unlike his sires of old. 
He wears their motto on his blade, 6 3 
Their blazon o'er his towers display 'd ; 
Yet loves his sovereign to oppose, 
More than to face his country's foes. 
And, I bethink me, by St. Stephen, 
But e'en this morn to me was given 
A prize, the first-fruits of the war, 
Ta'en by a galley from Dunbar, 

A bevy of the maids of Heaven. 
Under your guard, these holy maids 
Shall safe return to cloister shades, 
And, while they at Tantallon stay, 
Requiem for Cochran's soul may say." 
And, with the slaughter'd favourite's name, 
Across the Monarch's brow there came 
A cloud of ire, remorse, and shame. 

xvr. 
In answer nought could Angus speak ; 
His proud heart swell'd wellnigh to break : 
He turn'd aside, and down his cheek 

A burning tear there stole. 
His hand the Monarch sudden took, 
That sight his kind heart could not brook : 

" Now, by the Brace's soul, 
Angus, my hasty speech forgive ! 
For sure as doth his spirit live, 
As he said of the Douglas old, 

I well may say of you, — 
That never king did subject hold, 
In speech more free, in war more bold, 

More tender and more true : 
Forgive me, Douglas, once again." — 
And, while the King his hand did strain, 
The old man's tears fell down like rain. 
To seize the moment Marmion tried, 
And whisper'd to the King aside : 
" Oh ! let such tears unwonted plead 
For respite short from dubious deed ! 
A child will weep a bramble's smart, 
A maid to see her sparrow part, 
A stripling for a woman's heart ; 
But woe awaits a country, when 
She sees the tears of bearded men. 
Then, oh ! what omen, dark and high, 
When Douglas wets his manly eye ! " 



xvn. 
Displeased was James, that stranger view'd 
And tamper'd with his changing mood. 
" Laugh those that can, weep those that 

may," » 

Thus did the fiery Monarch say, 
" Southward I march by break of day ; 
And if within Tantallon strong, 
The good Lord Marmion tarries long, 
Perchance our meeting next may fall 
At Tamworth, in his castle-hall." — 
The haughty Marmion felt the taunt, 
And answer'd, grave, the royal vaunt : 
' ' Much honour'd were my humble home, 
If in its halls King James should come ; 
But Nottingham has archers good, 
And Yorkshire men are stern of mood ; 
Northumbrian prickers wild and rude. 
On Derby Hills the paths are steep ; 
In Ouse and Tyne the fords are deep ; 
And many a banner will be torn, 
And many a knight to earth be borne, 
And many a sheaf of arrows spent, 
Ere Scotland's King shall cross the Trent. 
Yet pause, brave Prince, while yet you 

may ! " — 
The Monarch lightly turn'd away, 
And to his nobles loud, did call, — . 
"Lords, to the dance, — a hall ! a hall ! " * 
Himself his cloak and sword flung by, 
And led Dame Heron gallantly ; 
And minstrels, at the royal order, 
Rung out — "Blue Bonnets o'er the Bor- 
der." 

XVIII. 

Leave we these revels now, to tell 
What to Saint Hilda's maids befell, 
Whose galley, as they sail'd again 
To Whitby, by a Scot was ta'en. 
Now at Dun-Edin did they bide, 
Till James should of their fate decide ; 

And soon, by his command, 
Were gently summon' d to prepare 
To journey under Marmion's care, 
As escort honour'd, safe, and fair, 

Again to English land. 
The Abbess told her chaplet o'er, 
Nor knew which saint she should implore 
For, when she thought of Constance, sore 

She fear'd Lord Marmion's mood. 
And judge what Clara must have felt ! 
The sword, that hung in Marmion's belt, 

Had drank De Wilton's blood. 

* The ancient cry to make room for a dance, 
or pageant. 



S8 



SCOWS POETICAL WORKS. 



Unwittingly, King James had given, 

As guard to Whitby's shades, 
The man most dreaded under Heaven 

By these defenceless maids : 
Yet what petition could avail, 
Or who would listen to the tale 
Of woman, prisoner, and nun, 
'Mid bustle of a war begun? 
They deem'd it hopeless to avoid 
The convoy of their dangerous guide. 



Their lodging, so the King assign'd, 
To Marmion's, as their guardian, join'd ; 
And thus it fell, that, passing nigh, 
The Palmer caught the Abbess' eye, 

Who warn'd him by a scroll, 
She had a secret to reveal, 
That much concern'd the Church's weal, 

And health of sinner's soul ; 
And, with deep charge of secrecy, 

She named a place to meet, 
Within an open balcony, 
That hung from dizzy pitch, and high, 

Above the stately street ; 
To which, as common to each home, 
At night they might in secret come. 

xx. 
At night, in secret, there they came. 
The Palmer and the holy Dame. 
The moon among the clouds rode high, 
And all the city hum was by. 
Upon the street, where late before 
Did din of war and warriors roar, 

You might have heard a pebble fall, 
A beetle hum, a cricket sing, 
An owlet flap his boding wing 

On Giles's steeple tall. 
The antique buildings, climbing high, 
Whose Gothic frontlets sought the sky, 

Were here wrapt deep in shade; 
There on their brows the moon-beam 

broke, 
Through the faint wreaths of silvery smoke, 

And on the casements play'd. 

And other light was none to see, 
Save torches-gliding far, 

Before some chieftain of degree, 

Who left the royal revelry 
To bowne him for the war. — 
A solemn scene the Abbess chose ; 
A solemn hour, her secret to disclose. 

XXI. 

" O, holy Palmer ! " she began, — 
" For sure he must be sainted man, 
Whose blessed feet have trod the ground 



Where the Redeemer's tomb is found, — 
For His dear Church's sake, my tale 
Attend, nor deem of light avail, 
Though I must speak of worldly love,— 
How vain to those who wed above! — 
De Wilton and Lord Marmion woo'd 
Clara de Clare, of Gloster's blood ; 
(Idle it were of Whitby's dame, 
To say of that same blood I came ;) 
And once, when jealous rage was high, 
Lord Marmion said despiteously, 
Wilton was traitor in his heart, 
And had made league with Martin Swart, 6 * 
When he came here on Simnel's part ; 
And only cowardice did restrain 
His rebel aid on Stokefield's plain, — 
And down he threw his glove :— the thing 
Was tried, as wont, before the King ; 
Where frankly did De Wilton own, 
That Swart in Gueldres he had known ; 
And that between them then there went 
Some scroll of courteous compliment. 
For this he to his castle sent ; 
But when his messenger return'd, 
Judge how De Wilton's fury burn'd 1 
For in his packet there were laid 
Letters that claim d disloyal aid, 
And proved King Henry's cause betray'd. 
His fame, thus blighted, in the field 
He strove to clear, by spear and shield ; — 
To clear his fame in vain he strove, 
For wondrous are His ways above ! 
Perchance some form was unobserved ; 
Perchance in prayer, or faith, he swerved ; 
Else how could guiltless champion quail, 
Or how the blessed ordeal fail? 

xxir. 

" His sauire, who now De Wilton saw 
As recreant doom'd to suffer law, 

Repentant, own'd in vain, 
That, while he had the scrolls in care, 
A stranger maiden, passing fair, 
Had drench'd hirn with a beverage rare; 

His words no faith could gain. 
With Clare alone he credence won, 
Who, rather than wed Marmion, 
Did to Saint Hilda's shrine repair, 
To give our house her livings fair 
And die a vestal vot'ress there. 
The impulse from the earth was given, 
But bent her to the paths of heaven. 
A purer heart, a. lovelier maid, 
Ne'er shelter' d her in Whitby's shade, 
No, not since Saxon Edelfled ; 

Only one trace of earthly strain, 
That for her lover's loss. 



MARMION. 



89 



She cherishes a sorrow vain, 
And murmurs at the cross. — 

And then her heritage ;— it goes 
Along the banks of Tame ; 

Deep fields of grain the reaper mows, 

In meadows rich the heifer lows, 

The falconer and huntsman knows 
Its woodlands for the game. 
Shame were it to Saint Hilda dear. 
And I, her humble vot'ress here, 

Should do a deadly sin, 
Her temple spoil'd before mine eyes, 
If this false Marmion such a prize 

By my consent should win ; 
Yet hath our boisterous monarch sworn 
That Clare shall from our house be torn, 
And grievous cause have I to fear 
Such mandate doth Lord Marmion bear. 

xxnr. 
"Now, prisoner, helpless, and betray'd 
To evil power, I claim thine aid, 

By every step that thou hast trod 
To holy shrine and grotto dim, 
By every martyr's tortured limb, 
By angel, saint, and seraphim, 

And by the Church of God ! 
For mark : — When Wilton was betray'd, 
And with his squire forged letters laid, 
She was, alas! that sinful maid, 

By whom the deed was done, — 
O ! shame and horror to be said ! — 

She was a perjured nun! 
No clerk in all the land, like her, 
Traced quaint and varying character. 
Perchance you may a marvel deem, 

That Marmion's paramour 
(For such vile thing she was) should scheme 

Her lover's nuptial hour ; 
But o'er him thus she hoped to gain, 
As privy to his honour's stain, 

Illimitable power : 
For this she secretly retain'd 

Each proof that might the plot reveal, 

Instructions with his hand and seal ; 
And thus Saint Hilda deign'd, 

Through sinner's perfidy impure, 

Her houses glory to secure, 
And Clare's immortal weal. 

XXIV. 

"'Twere long, and needless, here to tell, 
How to my hand these papers fell ; 

With me they must not stay. 
Saint Hilda keep her Abbess true ! 
Who knows what outrage he might do, 

While journeying by the way ? — 



O, blessed Saint, if e'er again 

I venturous leave thy calm domain, 

To travel or by land or main, 

Deep penance may I pay ! — 
Now, saintly Palmer, mark my prayer : 
I give this packet to thy care, 
For thee to stop they will not dare ; 

And O ! with cautious speed, 
To Wolsey's hand the papers bring, 
That he may show them to the King : 

And, for thy well-earn'd meed, 
Thou holy man, at Whitby's shrine 
A weekly mass shall still be thine, 

While priests can sing and read. — 
Whatail'st thou? — Speak!" For as he took 
The charge, a strong emotion shook 

His frame ; and, ere reply, 
They heard a faint, yet shrilly tone, 
Like distant clarion feebly blown, 

That on the breeze did die ; 
And loud the Abbess shriek'd in fear, 
"Saint Withold, save us ! — What is here ? 

Look at yon City Cross ! 
See on its battled tower appear 
Phantoms, that scutcheons seem to rear, 

And blazon'd banners toss ! " 



Dun-Edin's Cross, a pillar'd stone, 6 s 

Rose on a turret octagon ; 

(But now is razed that monument, 

Whence royal edict rang, 
And voice of Scotland's law was sent 

In glorious trumpet-clang. 
O ! be his tomb as lead to lead, 
Upon its dull destroyer's head ! 
A minstrel's malison * is said.) 
Then on its battlements they saw 
A vision, passing Nature's law, 

Strange, wild, and dimly seen ; 
Figures that seem'd to rise and die, 
Gibber and sign, advance and fly, 
While nought confirm'd could ear or eye 

Discern of sound or mien. 
Yet darkly did it seem, as there 
Heralds and Pursuivants prepare, 
With trumpet sound and blazon fair, 

A summons to proclaim ; 
But indistinct the pageant proud, 
As fancy forms of midnight cloud, 
When flings the moon upon her shroud 

A wavering tinge of flame ; 
It flits, expands, and shifts, till loud, 
From midmost of the spectre crowd, 

This awfil summons came i 66 — 



* Curse. 



go 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXVI. 

"Prince, prelate, potentate, and peer, 

Whose names I now shall call, 
Scottish, or foreigner, give ear ; 
Subjects of him who sent me here, 
At his tribunal to appear, 

I summon one and all : 
I cite you by each deadly sin, 
That e'er hath soil'd your hearts within : 
I cite you by each brutal lust, 
That e'er defiled your earthly dust, — 

By wrath, by pride, by fear, 
By each o'er-mastering passion's tone, 
By the dark grave, and dying groan ! 
When forty days are pass'd and gone, 
I cite you, at your Monarch's throne, 

To answer and appear." 
Then thunder'd forth a roll of names : 
The first was thine, unhappy James ! 

Then all thy nobles came ; 
Crawford, Glencairn, Montrose, Argyle, 
Ross, Bothwell, Forbes, Lennox, Lyle, — 
Why should I tell their separate style ? 

Each chief of birth and fame, 
Of Lowland, Highland, Border, Isle, 
Fore-doom'd to Flodden's carnage pile, 

Was cited there by name ; 
And Marmion, Lord of Fontenaye, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye ; 
De Wilton, erst of Aberley, 
The self-same thundering voice did say. — 

But then another spoke : 
"Thy fatal summons I deny, 
And thine infernal Lord defy, 
Appealing me to Him on High, 

Who burst the sinner's yoke." 
At that dread accent, with a scream, 
Parted the pageant like a dream, 

The summoner was gone. 
Prone on her face the Abbess fell 
And fast, and fast, her beads did tell ; 
Her nuns came, startled by the yell, 

And found her there alone. 
She mark'd not, at the scene aghast, 
What time, or how, the Palmer pass'd. 

XXVII. 

Shift we the scene. — The camp doth move, 

Dun-Edin's streets are empty now, 
Save when, for weal of those they love, 

To pray the prayer, and vow the vow, 
The tottering child, the anxious fair, 
The gray-hair'd sire, with pious care. 
To chapels and to shrines repair — 
Where is the Palmer now? and where 
The Abbess, Marmion, and Clare?— 
Bold Douglas ! to Tantallon fair 



They journey in thy charge : 
Lord Marmion rode on his right hand, 
The Palmer still was with the band ; 
Angus, like Lindesay, did command, 

That none should roam at large. 
But in that Palmer's altered mien 
A wondrous change might now be seen, 

Freely he spoke of war, 
Of marvels wrought by single hand, 
When lifted for a native land ; 
And still look'd high, as if he plann'd 

Some desperate deed afar. 
His courser would he feed and stroke, 
And, tucking up his sable frocke, 
Would first his mettle bold provoke, 

Then soothe or quell his pride. 
Old Hubert said, that never one 
He saw, except Lord Marmion, 

A steed so fairly ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some half-hour's march behind, there 
came, 
By Eustace govern' d fair, 
A troop escorting Hilda's Dame, 
With all her nuns, and Clare. 
No audience had Lord Marmion sought ; 
Ever he fear'd to aggravate 
Clara de Clare's suspicious hate ; 
And safer 'twas, 'he thought, 

To wait till, from the nuns removed, 
The influence of kinsmen loved, 
And suit by Henry's self approved, 
Her slow consent had wrought. 

His was no flickering flame, that dies 
Unless when fann'd by looks and sighs, 
And lighted oft at lady's eyes ; 
He long'd to stretch his wide' command 
O'er luckless Clara's ample land : 
Besides, when Wilton with him vied, 
Although the pang of humbled pride 
The place of jealousy supplied, 
Yet conquest by that meanness won 
He almost loath'd to think upon, 
Led him, at times, to hate the cause, 
Which made him burst through honour's 

laws. 
If e'er he loved, 'twas her alone, 
Who died within that vault of stone. 

XXIX. 

And now, when close at hand they saw 
North Berwick's town, and lofty Law, 
Fitz-Eustace bade them pause awhile, 
Before a venerable pile, * 



* A convent of Cistertian nuns, founded by 
the Earl of Fife in 1216. 



MARMION". 



01 



Whose turrets view'd, afar, 
The lofty Bass, the Lambie Isle, 

The ocean's peace or war. 
At tolling of a bell, forth came 
The convent's venerable Dame, 
And pray'd Saint Hilda's Abbess rest 
With her, a loved and honour' d guest, 
Till Douglas should a bark prepare 
To waft her back to Whitby fair. 
Glad was the Abbess, you may guess, 
And thank'd the Scottish Prioress ; 
And tedious were to tell, I ween, 
The courteous speech that pass'd between. 

O'erjoy'd the nuns their palfreys leave ; 
But when fair Clara did intend, 
Like them, from horseback to descend, 

Fitz-Eustace said,—" I grieve, 
Fair lady, grieve e'en from my heart, 
Such gentle company to part ; — 

Think not discourtesy, 
But lords' commands must be obey'd ; 
And Marmion and the Douglas said, 

That you must wend with me. 
Lord Marmion hath a letter broad, 
Which to the Scottish Earl he show'd, 
Commanding that, beneath his care, 
Without delay, you shall repair 
To your good kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare." 



The startled Abbess loud exclaim'd ; 
But she, at whom the blow was aim'd, 
Grew pale as death, and cold as lead, — 
She deem'd she heard her death-doom read. 
11 Cheer thee, my child ! " the Abbess said, 
"They dare not tear thee from my hand, 
To ride alone with armed band." 

"Nay, holy mother, nay," 
Fitz-Eustace said, " the lovely Clare 
Will be in Lady Angus' care, 

In Scotland while we stay ; 
And, when we move, an easy ride 
Will bring us to the English side, 
Female attendance to provide 

Befitting Gloster's heir: 
Nor thinks nor drearns my noble lord, 
By slightest look, or act, or word, 

To harass Lady Clare. 
Her faithful guardian he will be, 
Nor sue for slightest courtesy 

That e'en to stranger falls, 
Till he shall place her, safe and free, 

Within her kinsman's halls." 
He spoke, and blush'd with earnest grace ; 
His faith was painted on his face, 

And Clare's worst fear relieved. 



The Lady Abbess loud exclaim'd 
On Henry, and the Douglas blamed, 

Entreated, threaten'd, grieved ; 
To martyr, saint, and prophet pray'd, 
Against Lord Marmion inveigh'd, 
And call'd the Prioress to aid, 
To curse with candle, bell, and book. 
Her head the grave Cistertian shook : 
"The Douglas, and the King," she said, 
" In their commands will be obey'd ; 
Grieve not, nor dream that harm can fall 
The maiden in Tantallon hall." 

XXXI. 

The Abbess, seeing strife was vain, 
Assumed her wonted state again, — 

For much of state she had, — 
Composed her veil, and raised her head, 
And — " Bid," in solemn voice she said, 

"Thy master, bold and bad, 
The records of his house turn o'er, 

And, when he shall there written see, 

That one of his own ancestry 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry, 6 ? 
Bid him his fate explore ! 

Prancing in pride of earthly trust, 

His charger hurl'd him to the dust, 

And, by a base plebeian thrust, 
He died his band before. 

God judge 'twixt Marmion and me ; 

He is a Chief of high degree, 
And I a poor recluse : 

Yet oft, in holy writ, we see 

Even such weak minister as me 
May the oppressor bruise : 

For thus, inspired, did Judith slay 
The mighty in his sin, 

And Jael thus, and Deborah" 

Here hasty Blount broke in : 
" Fitz-Eustace, we must march our band ; 
St. Anton' fire thee ! wilt thou stand 
All day, with bonnet in thy hand, 

To hear the lady preach ? 
By this good light ! if thus we stay, 
Lord Marmion, for our fond delay, 

Will sharper sermon teach. 
Come, don thy cap, and mount thy horse ; 
The dame must patience take perforce." — 

xxxir. 
"Submit we then to force," said Clare, 
' ' But let this barbarous lord despair 

His purposed aim to win ; 
Let him take living, land, and life: 
But to be Marmion' s wedded wife 

In me were deadly sin : 
And if it be the King's decree 
That I must find no sanctuary, 



92 



scorrs poetical works. 



In that inviolable dome, 

Where even a homicide might come, 

And safely rest his head, 
Though at its open portals stood, 
Thirsting to pour forth blood for blood, 

The kinsmen of the dead ; 
Yet one asylum is my own 

Against the dreaded hour ; 
A low, a silent, and a lone, 

Where kings have little power. 
One victim is before me there. — 
Mother, your blessing, and in prayer, 
Remember your unhappy Clare ! " 
Loud weeps the Abbess, and bestows 

Kind blessings many a one : 
Weeping and wailing loud arose, 
Round patient Clare, the clamorous woes 

Of every simple nun. 
His eyes the gentle Eustace dried, 
And scarce rude Blount the sight could 
bide. 

Then took the squire her rein, 
And gently led away her steed, 
And, by each courteous word and deed, 

To cheer her strove in vain. 

XXXIII. 

But scant three miles the band had rode, 

When o'er a height they pass'd, 
And, sudden, close before them show'd 

His towers, Tantallon vast ; 
Broad, massive, high, and stretching far, 
And held impregnable in war. 
On a projecting rock they rose, 
And round three sides the ocean flows, 
The fourth did battled walls enclose, 

And double mound and fosse. 
By narrow drawbridge, outworks strong, 
Through studded gates, an entrance long, 

To the main court they cross. 
It was a wide and stately square : 
Around were lodgings, fit and fair, 

And towers of various form, 
Which on the court projected far, 
And broke its lines quadrangular. 
Here was square keep, there turret high, 
Or pinnacle that sought the. sky, 
Whence oft the warder could descry 

The gathering ocean storm. 

XXXIV. 

Here did they rest. — The princely care 
Of Douglas, why should I declare, 
Or say they met reception fair ; 

Or why the tidings say, 
Which, varying, to Tantallon came, 
By hurrying posts of fleeter fame, 



With ever varying day ? 
And, first they heard King James had won 

Etall, and Wark, and Ford ; and then, 

That Norham Castle strong was ta'en. 
At that sore marvell'd Marmion ; — 
And Douglas hoped his monarch's hand 
Would soon subdue Northumberland: 

But whisper'd news there came, 
That, while his host inactive lay, 
And melted by degrees away, 
King James was dallying off the day 

With Heron's wily dame. — 
Such acts to chronicles I yield ; 

Go seek them there, and see : 
Mine is a tale of Flodden Field, 

And not a history. — 
At length they heard the Scottish host 
On that high ridge had made their post, 

Which frowns o'er Millfield Plain ; 
And that brave Surrey many a band 
Had gather'd in the Southern land, 
And march'd into Northumberland, 

And camp at Wooler ta'en. 
Marmion, like charger in the stall, 
That hears, without, the trumpet-call, 

Began to chafe, and swear : — 
" A sorry thing to hide my head 
In castle, like a fearful maid, 

When such a field is near! 
Needs must I see this battle-day : 
Death to my fame if such a fray 
Were fought, and Marmion away ! 
The Douglas, too, I wot not why, 
Hath 'bated of his courtesy : 
No longer in his halls I'll stay." 
Then bade his band they should array 
For march against the dawning day. 



INTRODUCTION TO CANTO 
SIXTH. 

TO RICHARD HEBER, ESQ. 

Mertoun-House, Christmas. 

Heap on more wood, ! — the wind is chill ; 
But let it whistle as it will, 
We'll keep our Christmas merry still. 
Each age has deem'd the new-born year 
The fittest time for festal cheer : 
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane 
At Iol more deep the mead did drain ; 6 " 
High on the beach his galleys drew, 
And feasted all his pirate crew ; 
Then in his low and pine-built hall, 
Where shields and axes deck'd the wall, 



MARMION. 



93 



They gorged upon (he half-dress'd steer ; 
Caroused in seas of sable beer ; 
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown 
The half-gnaw'd rib and marrow-bone : 
Or listen'd all, in grim delight, 
While Scalds yell'd out the joys of fight. 
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie, 
While wildly-loose their red locks fly, 
And dancing round the blazing pile, 
They make such barbarous mirth the while, 
As best might to the mind recall 
The boisterous joys of Odin's hall. 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had roll'd, 
And brought blithe Christmas back again, 
With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honour to the holy night ; 
On Christmas eve the bells were rung ; 
On Christmas eve the mass was sung : 
That only night in all the year, 
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen ; 
The hall was dress'd with holly green ; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,'. 
To gather in the mistletoe. 
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all ; 
Power laid his rod of rule aside, 
And Ceremony doff 'd his pride. 
The heir, with roses in his shoes, 
That night might village partner choose ; 
The Lord, underogating, share 
The vulgar game of "post and pair." * 
All hail'd with uncontroll'd delight, 
And general voice, the happy night, 
That to the cottage, as the crown, 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied, 
Went roaring up the chimney wide ; 
The huge hall-table's oaken face, 
Scrubb'd till it shone, the day to grace, 
Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
By old blue-coated serving-man ; 
Then the grim boar's head frown'd on high, 
Crested with bays and rosemary. 
Well can the green-garb'd ranger tell, 
How, when, and where, the monster fell ; 
What dogs before his death he tojje, 
And all the baiting of the boar. 
The wassel round, in good brown bowls, 
Garnish'd with ribbons, blithely trowls. 

* An old game at cards. 



There the huge sirloin reek'd ; hard by 
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie ; 
Nor fail'd old Scotland to produce, 
At such high tide, her savoury goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in, 
And carols roar'd with blithesome din ; 
If unmelodious was the song, 
It was a hearty note, and strong. 
Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery ; ^ 
White shirts supplied the masquerade, 
And smutted cheeks the visors made ; 
But, O ! what maskers, richly dight, 
Can boast of bosoms half so light ! 
England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports again . 
'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale; 
'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale ; 
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man's heart through half the 
year. 

Still linger, in our northern clime, 
Some remnants of the good old time ; 
And still, within our valleys here, 
We hold the kindred title dear, 
Even when, perchance, its far-fetch'd claim 
To Southron ear sounds empty name ; 
For course of blood, our proverbs deem, 
Is warmer than the mountain-stream. f 
And thus, my Christmas still I hold 
Where my great grandsire came of old, 
With amber beard, and flaxen hair, 
And reverend apostolic air — 
The feast and holy-tide to share, 
And mix sobriety with wine, 
And honest mirth with thoughts divine : 
Small thought was his, in after time 
E'er to be hitch'd into a rhyme. 
The simple sire could only boast, 
That he was loyal to his cost ; 
The banish'd race of kings revered, 
And lost his land,— but kept his beard. 

In these dear halls, where welcome kind 
Is with fair liberty combined ; 
Where cordial friendship gives the hand, 
And flies constraint the magic wand 
Of the fair dame that rules the land. 
Little we heed the tempest drear, 
While music, mirth, and social cheer, 
Speed on their wings the passing year. 
And Mertoun's halls are fair e'en now, 
When not a leaf is on the bough. 
Tweed loves them well, and turns again, 
As loath to leave the sweet domain, 



t " Blood is warmer than water.' 



94 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVOR AS. 



And holds his mirror to her face, 
And clips her with a close embrace : — 
Gladly as he, we seek the dome, 
And as reluctant turn us home. 

Howjust that, at. this time of glee, 
My thoughts should, Heber, turn to thee ! 
For many a merry hour we've known, 
And heard the chimes of midnight's tone. 
Cease, then, my friend ! a moment cease, 
And leave these classic tomes in peace ! 
Of Roman and of Grecian lore, 
Sure mortal brain can hold no more. 
These ancients, as Noll Bluff might say, 
' ' Were pretty fellows in their day ; " 
But time and tide o'er all prevail— 
On Christmas eve a Christmas tale — 
Of wonder and of war — ' ' Profane ! 
What ! leave the lofty Latian strain, 
Her stately prose, her verse's charms, 
To hear the clash of rusty arms : 
In Fairy Land or Limbo lost, 
To jostle conjurer and ghost, 
Goblin and witch ! " — Nay, Heber dear, 
Before you touch my charter, hear : 
Though Leyden aids, alas ! no more, 
My cause with many-languaged lore, 
This may I say : — in realms of death 
Ulysses meets Alcides' wraith; 
/Eneas, upon Thracia's shore, 
The ghost of murder'd Polydore ; 
For omens, we in Livy cross, 
At every turn, locutus Bos. 
As grave and duly speaks that ox, 
As if he told the price of stocks ; 
Or held, in Rome republican, 
The place of common-councilman. 

All nations have their omens drear, 
Their legends wild of woe and fear. 
To Cambria look — the peasant see, 
Bethink him of Glendowerdy, 
And shun " the spirit's Blasted Tree."* 
The Highlander, whose red claymore 
The battle turn'd on Maida's shore, 
Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
If ask'd to tell a fairy tale ;7° 
He fears the vengeful Elfin King, 
Who leaves that day his grassy ring : 
Invisible to human ken, 
He walks among the sons of men. 

Didst e'er, dear Heber, pass along 
Beneath the towers of Franchemont, 

* Alluding to the Welsh tradition of Howel 
Sell and Owen Glendvvr. Howel fell in single 
combat against Glendwr, and his body was 
concealed in a hollow oak. 



Which, like an eagle's nest in air, 
Hang o'er the stream and hamlet fair? 
Deep in their vaults, the peasants say, 
A mighty treasure buried lay, 
Amass'd through rapine and through 

wrong, 
By the last Lord of Franchemont.? 1 
The iron chest is bolted hard, 
A huntsman sits its constant guard ; 
Around his neck his horn is hung, 
His hanger in his belt is slung ; 
Before his feet his blood-hounds lie. 
An 'twere not for his gloomy eye, 
Whose withering glance no heart can brook, 
As true a huntsman doth he look, 
As bugle e'er in brake did sound, 
Or ever halloo'd to a hound. 
To chase the fiend, and win the prize, 
In that same dungeon ever tries 
An aged necromantic priest ; 
It is an hundred years at least, 
Since 'twixt them first the strife begun, 
And neither yet has lost nor won. 
And oft the Conjurer's words will make 
The stubborn Demon groan and quake ; 
And oft the bands of iron'break, 
Or bursts one lock, that still amain, 
Fast as 'tis open'd, shuts again. 
That magic strife within the tomb 
May last until the day of doom, 
Unless the adept shall learn to tell 
The very word that clench' d the spell, 
When Franch'mont lock'd the treasure 

cell. 
An hundred years are pass'd and gone, 
And scarce three letters has he won. 

Such general superstition may 
Excuse for old Pitscottie say ; 
Whose gossip history has given 
My song the messenger from Heaven, 
Thatwarn'd, in Lithgow, Scotland's King, 
Nor less the infernal summoning ; 
May pass the Monk of Durham's tale, 
Whose demon fought in Gothic mail ; 
May pardon plead for Fordun grave, 
Who told of Gifford's Goblin-Cave. 
But why such instances to you, 
Who, in an instant, can renew 
Your treasured hoards of various lore, 
And furnish twenty thousand more ; 
Hoards, not like theirs whose volumes rest 
Like treasures in the Franch'mont chest, 
While gripple owners still refuse 
To others what they cannot use ; 
Give them the priest's whole century, 
They shall not spell you letters three ; 



MARMION. 



95 



Their pleasure in the books the same 
The magpie takes in pilfer'd gem. 
Thy volumes, open as thy heart, 
Delight, amusement, science, art, 
To every ear and eye impart ; 
Yet who of all who thus employ them, 
Can like the owner's self enjoy them? — 
But, hark! I hear the distant drum ! 
The day of Flodden Field is come. — 
Adieu, dear Heber! life and health, 
And store of literary wealth. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

THE BATTLE. 
I. 

While great events were on the gale, 

And each hour brought a varying tale, 

And the demeanour, changed and cold, 

Of Douglas, fretted Marmion bold, 

And, like the impatient steed of war, 

He snuff 'd the battle from afar ; 

And hopes were none, that back again 

Herald should come from Terouenne, 

Where England's King in leaguer lay, 

Before decisive battle-day ; 

Whilst these things were, the mournful 

Clare 
Did in the Dame's devotions share : 
For the good Countess ceaseless pray'd 
To heaven and Saints, her sons to aid, 
And, with short interval, did pass 
From prayer to book, from book to mass, 
And all in high Baronial pride, — 
A life both dull and dignified ; 
Yet as Lord Marmion nothing press'd 
Upon her intervals of rest, 
Dejected Clara well could bear 
The formal state, the lengthen'd prayer, 
Though dearest to her wounded heart 
The hours that she might spend apart. 

II. 
I said, Tantallon's dizzy steep 
Hung o'er the margin of the deep. 
Many a rude tower and rampart there 
Repell'd the insult of the air, 
Which, when the tempest vex'd the sky, 
Half breeze, half spray, came whistling by. 
Above the rest, a turret square 
Did o'er its Gothic entrance bear, 
Of sculpture rude, a stony shield ; 
The Bloody Heart was in the Field, 
And in the chief three mullets stood, 
The cognizance of Douglas blood. 
The turret held a narrow stair, 



Which, mounted, gave you access where* 

A parapet's embattled row 

Did seaward round the castle go. 

Sometimes in dizzy steps descending, 

Sometimes in narrow circuit bending, 

Sometimes in platform broad extending, 

Its varying circle did combine 

Bulwark, and bartizan, and line, 

And bastion, tower, and vantage-coign ; 

Above the booming ocean leant 

The far-projecting battlement ; 

The billows burst, in ceaseless flow, 

Upon the precipice below. 

Where'er Tantallon faced the land, 

Gate-works, and walls, were strongly 

mann'd ; 
No need upon the sea-girt side ; 
The steepy rock, and frantic tide, 
Approach of human step denied ; 
And thus these lines and ramparts rude, 
Were left in deepest solitude. 

in. 
And, for they were so lonely, Clare 
Would to these battlements repair, 
And muse upon her sorrows there, 

And list the sea-bird's ciy ; 
Or slow, like noontide ghost, would glide, 
Along the dark-gray bulwarks' side, 
And ever on the heaving tide 

Look down with weary eye. 
Oft did the cliff and swelling main, 
Recall the thoughts of Whitby's fane, — 
A home she ne'er might see again ; 

For she had laid adown, 
So Douglas bade, the hood and veil, 
And frontlet of the cloister pale, 

And Benedictine gown : 
It were unseemly sight, he said , 
A novice out of convent shade. — 
Now her bright locks, with sunny glow, 
Again adorn'd her brow of snow ; 
Her mantle rich, whose borders, round, 
A deep and fretted broidery bound, 
In golden foldings sought the ground ; 
Of holy ornament, alone 
Remain'd a cross with ruby stone ; 

And often did she look 
On that which in her hand she bore, 
With velvet bound, and broider'd o'er, 

Her breviary book. 
In such a place, so lone, so grim, 
At dawning pale, or twilight dim, 

It fearful would have been 
To meet a form so richly dress'd, 
With book in hand, and cross on breast, 

And such a woeful mien. 



- 



9 6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Fitz-Eustace, loitering with his bow, 
To practise on the gull and crow, 
Saw her, at distance, gliding slow, 

And did by Mary swear, — 
Some love-lorn Fay she might have been, 
Or, in Romance, some spell-bound Queen ; 
For ne'er, in work-day world, was seen 

A form so witching fair. 



Once walking thus, at evening tide, 
It chanced a gliding sail she spied, 
And, sighing, thought — "The Abbess, 

there, 
Perchance, does to her home repair ; 
Her peaceful rule, where Duty, free, 
Walks hand in hand with Charity; 
Where oft Devotion's tranced glow 
Can such a glimpse of heaven bestow, 
That the enraptured sisters see 
High vision and deep mystery ; 
The very form of Hilda fair, 
Hovering upon the sunny air, 
And smiling on her votaries' prayer. 
O ! wherefore, to my duller eye, 
Did still the Saint her form deny ; 
Was it, that, sear'd by sinful scorn, 
My heart could neither melt nor burn ? 
Or lie my warm affections low, 
With him, that taught them first to glow? 
Yet gentle Abbess, well I knew, 
To pay thy kindness grateful due, 
And well could brook the mild command, 
That ruled thy simple maiden band. 
How different now ! condemn'd to bide 
My doom from this dark tyrant's pride. — 
But Marmion has to learn, ere long, 
That constant mind, and hate of wrong, 
Descended to a feeble girl, 
From Red De Clare, stout Gloster's Earl : 
Of such a stem, a sapling weak, 
He ne'er shall bend, although he break. 

v. 
' ' But see ! what makes this armour 
here ? " — 
For in her path there lay 
Targe, corslet, helm ; — she view'd them 

near. — 
' ' The breast-plate pierced ! — Ay, much I 

fear, 
Weak fence wert thou 'gainst foeman's 

spear, 
That hath made fatal entrance here, 

As these dark blood-gouts say.— 
Thus Wilton ! — Oh ! not corslet's ward, 



Not truth, as diamond pure and hard, 
Could be thy manly bosom's guard, 

On yon disastrous day ! " — 
She raised her eyes in mournful mood, — 
Wilton himself before her stood ! 
It might have seem'd his passing ghost, 
For every youthful grace was lost ; 
And joy unwonted, and surprise, 
Gave their strange wildness to his eyes. — 
Expect not, noble dames and lords, 
That I can tell such scene in words : 
What skilful limner e'er would choose 
To paint the rainbow's varying hues, 
Unless to mortal it were given 
To dip his brush in dyes of heaven ? 
Far less can my weak line declare 

Each changing passion's shade ; 
Brightening to rapture from despair, 
Sorrow, surprise, and pity there, 
And joy, with her angelic air, 
And hope, that paints the future fair, 

Their varying hues display'd: 
Each o'er its rival's ground extending, 
Alternate conquering, shifting, blending, 
Till all, fatigued, the conflict yield, 
And mighty Love retains the field. 
Shortly I tell what then he said, 
By many a tender word delay'd, 
And modest blush, and bursting sigh, 
And question kind, and fond reply : — 



DE WILTON'S HISTORY. 

' ' Forget we that disastrous day, 
When senseless in the lists I lay. 

Thence dragg'd, — but how I cannot 
know, 
For sense and recollection fled, — 

I found me on a pallet low, 

Within my ancient beadsman's shed. 

Austin, — remember'st thou, my Clare, 
How thou didst blush, when the old man, 
When first our infant love began, 

Said we would make a matchless pair?— 
Menials, and friends, and kinsmen fled 
From the degraded traitor's bed, — 
He only held my burning head, 
And tended me for many a day, 
While wounds and fever held their sway. 
But far more needful was his care, 
When sense return'd to wake despair ; 

For I did tear the closing wound, 

And dash me frantic on the ground, 
If e'er I heard the name of Clare. 
At length, to calmer reason brought, 
Much by his kind attendance wrought, 



MARM10N. 



07 



With him I left my native strand, 
And, in a palmer's weeds array 'd, 
My hated name and form to shade, 

I journey'd many a land ; 
No more a lord of rank and birth, 
But mingled with the dregs of earth. 

Oft Austin for my reason fear'd, 
When I would sit, and deeply brood 
On dark revenge, and deeds of blood, 

Or wild mad schemes uprear'd. 
My friend at length fell sick, and said, 

God would remove him soon : 
And, while upon his dying bed, 

He begg'd of me a boon — 
If e'er my deadliest enemy 
Beneath my brand should conquer'd lie, 
Even then my mercy should awake, 
And spare his life for Austin's sake. 

vir. 
"Still restless as a second Cain, 
To Scotland next my route was ta'en, 

Full well the paths 1 knew. 
Fame of my fate made various sound, 
That death in pilgrimage I found, 
That I had perish'd of my wound, 

None cared which tale was true ; 
And living eye could never guess 
De Wilton in his Palmer's dress ; 
For now that sable slough is shed, 
And trimm'd my shaggy beard and head, 
I scarcely know me in the glass. 
A chance most wondrous did provide, 
That I should be that Baron's guide — 

I will not name his name ! — 
Vengeance to God alone belongs ; 
But, when I think on all my wrongs, 

My blood is liquid flame ! 
And ne'er the time shall I forget, 
When, in a Scottish hostel set, 

Dark looks we did exchange : 
What were his thoughts I cannot tell ; 
But in my bosom muster'd Hell 

Its plans of dark revenge. 

VIII. 
"A word of vulgar augury, 
That broke from me, I scarce knew why, 

Brought on a village tale ; 
Which wrought upon his moody sprite, 
And sent him armed forth by night. 

I borrow'd steed and mail, 
And weapons, from his sleeping band ; 

And, passing from a postern door, 
We met, and 'counter'd hand to hand, — 

He fell on Gifford moor. 
For the death-stroke my brand I drew 



(O then my helmed head he knew, 

The Palmer's cowl was gone,) 
Then had three inches of my blade 
The heavy debt of vengeance paid, — 
My hand the thought of Austin staid ; 

I left him there alone. — 
O good old man ! even from the grave 
Thy spirit could thy master save : 
If I had slain my foeman, ne'er 
Had Whitby's Abbess, in her fear, 
Given to my hand this packet dear, 
Of power to clear my injured fame, 
And vindicate De Wilton's name. — 
Perchance you heard the Abbess tell 
Of the strange pageantry of Hell, 

That broke our secret speech — 
It rose from the infernal shade, 
Or featly was some juggle play'd, 

A tale of peace to teach. 
Appeal to Heaven I judged was best, 
When my name came among the rest. 

IX. 

" Now here, within Tantallon Hold, 
To Douglas late my tale I told, 
To whom my house was known of old. 
Won by my proofs, his falchion bright 
This eve anew shall dub me knight. 
These were the arms that once did turn 
The tide of fight on Otterburne, 
And Harry Hotspur forced to yield, 
When the Dead Douglas won the field.* 
These Angus gave— his armourer's care, 
Ere morn shall every breach repair ; 
For nought, he said, was in his halls, 
But ancient armour on the walls, 
And aged chargers in the stalls, 
And women, priests, and gray-hair'd men ; 
The rest were all in Twisel glen.f 
And now I watch my armour here, 
By law of arms, till midnight's near ; 
Then, once again a belted knight, 
Seek Surrey's camp with dawn of light. 



" There soon again we meet, my Clare 1 
This Baron means to guide thee there : 
Douglas reveres his King's command, 
Else would he take thee from his band. 
And there thy kinsman, Surrey, too, 
Will give De Wilton justice due. 
Now meeter far for martial broil, 
Firmer my limbs, and strung by toil, 



* See the ballad of Otterbourne, in the 
" Border Minstrelsy," vol. i. p. 345. 

t Where James encamped before taking post 
on Flodden. 



9 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Once more" — "O Wilton ! must we then 
Risk new-found happiness again, 

Trust fate of arms once more? 
And is there not an humble glen, 

Where we, content and poor, 
Might build a cottage in the shade, 
A shepherd thou, and I to aid 

Thy task on dale and moor? — 
That reddening brow ! — too well I know, 
Not even thy Clare can peace bestow, 

While falsehood stains thy name ; 
Go then to fight ! Clare bids thee go! 
Clare can a warrior's feelings know, 

And weep a warrior's shame ; 
Can Red Earl Gilbert's spirit feel, 
Buckle the spurs upon thy heel, 
And belt thee with thy brand of steel, 

And send thee forth to fame !" 



That night, upon the rocks and bay, 
The midnight moon-beam slumbering lay, 
And pour'd its silver light, and pure, 
Through loop-hole, and through embra- 

Upon Tantallon tower and hall ; [zure, 
But chief where arched windows wide 
Illuminate the chapel's pride, 

The sober glances fall. 
Much was their need ; though 'seam'd with 

scars, 
Two veterans of the Douglas' wars, 

Though two gray priests were there, 
And each a blazing torch held high, 
You could not by their blaze descry 

The chapel's carving fair. 
Amid that dim and smoky light, 
Chequering the silver moon-shine bright, 

A bishop by the altar stood, * 

A noble lord of Douglas blood, 
With mitre sheen, and rocquet white. 
Yet show'd his meek and thoughtful eye 
But little pride of prelacy ; 
More pleased that, in a barbarous age, 
He gave rude Scotland Virgil's page, 
Than that beneath his rule he held 
The bishopric of fair Dunkeld. 
Beside him ancient Angus stood, 
Doff 'd his furr'd gown and sable hood : 
O'er his huge form and visage pale, 
He wore a cap and shirt of mail ; 



* The well-known Gawain Douglas, Bishop 
of Dunkeld, son of Archibald Bell-the-Cat, 
Earl of Angus. He was author of a Scottish 
metrical version of the iEneid, and of many 
other poetical pieces of great merit. He had 
not at this period attained the mitre. 



And lean'd his large and wrinkled hand 
Upon the huge and sweeping brand 
Which wont of yore, in battle fray, 
His foeman's limbs to shred away, 
As wood-knife lops the sapling spray." 2 

He seem'd as, from the tombs around 
Rising at judgment-day, 

Some giant Douglas may be found 
In all his old array ; 
So pale his face, so huge his limb, 
So old his arms, his look so grim. 

XII. 

Then at the altar Wilton kneels, 
And Clare the spurs bound on his heels ; 
And think what next he must have felt, 
At buckling of the falchion belt ! 

And judge how Clara changed her hue. 
While fastening to her lover's side 
A friend, which, though in danger tried, 

He once had found untrue ! 
Then Douglas struck him with his blade . 
"Saint Michael and Saint Andrew aid, 

I dub thee knight. 
Arise, Sir Ralph, De Wilton's heir! 
For King, for Church, for Lady fair, 

See that thou fight." — 
And Bishop Gawain, as he rose, 
Said — " Wilton ! grieve not for thy wo^s. 

Disgrace, and trouble ; 
For He, who honour best bestows, 

May give thee double." 
De Wilton sobb'd, for sob he must — 
"Where'er I meet a Douglas, trust 

That Douglas is my brother!" — 
"Nay, nay," old Angus said, "not so; 
To Surrey's camp thou now must go, 
Thy wrongs no longer smother. 
I have two sons in yonder field ; 
And, if thou meet'st them under shield, 
Upon them bravely — do thy worst ; 
And foul fall him that blenches first!" 



Not far advanced was morning day, 
When Marmion did his troop array 

To Surrey's camp to ride ; 
He had safe conduct for his band, 
Beneath the royal seal and hand, 

And Douglas gave a guide : 
The ancient Earl, with stately grace, 
Would Clara on her palfrey place, 
And whisper'd in an under tone, 
" Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown. 
The train from out the castle drew, 
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu :— 




Ha turned aside, and down his cheek 
A burning tear there stole. 



Marmion. 




" Though something I might plain," he 
said, 
"Of cold respect to stranger guest, 
Sent hither by your King's behest, 

While in Tantallon's towers I staid ; 
Part we in friendship from your land, 
And, noble Earl, receive my hand." — 
But Douglas round him drew his cloak, 
Folded his arms, and thus he spoke: — 
" My manors, halls, and bowers, shall still 
Be open, at my Sovereign's will, 
To each one whom he lists, howe'er 
Unmeet to be the owner's peer. 
My castles are my King's alone, 
From turret to foundation-stone — 
The hand of Douglas is his own ; 
And never shall in friendly grasp 
The hand of such as Marmion clasp." — 

XIV. 

Burn'd Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire, 
And shook his very frame for ire, 

And— " This to me ! " he said, — 
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard, 
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared 

To cleave the Douglas' head ! 
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer, 
He, who does England's message here, 
Although the meanest in her state, 
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate': 
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here, 

Even in thy pitch of pride, 
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near, 
(Nay, never look upon your lord, 
And lay your hands upon your sword,) 

I tell thee, thou'rt defied! 
And if thou said'st I am not peer 
To any lord in Scotland here, 
Lowland or Highland, far or near, 

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!" 
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage 
O'ercame the ashen hue of age : 
Fierce he broke forth, — " And darest thou, 

then, 
To beard the lion in his den, 

The Douglas in his hall ? 
And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ? — 
No, by Saint Bride of Bothwell, no ! 
Up drawbridge, grooms— what, Warder, 

- ho! 

Let the portcullis fall." sp 
Lord Marmion turn'd, — well was his need, 
And dash'd the rowels in his steed, 
Like arrow through the archway sprung, 
The ponderous grate behind him rung : 
To pass there was such scanty room, 
The bars, descending, razed his plume. 



The steed along the drawbridge flies, 
Just as it trembled on the rise ; 
Nor lighter does the swallow skim 
Along the smooth lake's level brim : 
And when Lord Alarmion reach'd his band, 
He halts, and turns with clenched hand, 
And shout of loud defiance pours, 
And shook his gauntlet at the towers. 
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, " and 

chase ! " 
But soon he rein'd his fury's pace : 
"A royal messenger he came, 
Though most unworthy of the name.— 
A letter forged ! Saint Jude to speed ! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed ! 74 
At first in heart it liked me ill, 
When the King praised his clerkly skill. 
Thanks to Saint Bothan, son of mine, 
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line. 
So swore I, and I swear it still, 
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill. — 
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood S 
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas blood, 
I thought to slay him where he stood. 
'Tis pity of him too," he cried : 
' ' Bold can he speak, and fairly ride, 
I warrant him a warrior tried." 
With this his mandate he recalls, 
And slowly seeks his castle halls. 

XVI. 

The day in Marmion's journey wore ; 
Yet, ere his passion's gust was o'er, 
They cross'd the heights of Stanrig-moor. 
His troop more closely there he scann'd, 
And miss'd the Palmer from the band. — 
" Palmer or not," young Blount did say, 
' ' He parted at the peep of day ; 
Good sooth, it was in strange array." 
"In what array?" said Marmion, quick. 
" My lord, I ill can spell the trick ; 
But all night long, with clink and bang, 
Close to my couch did hammers clang ; 
At dawn the falling drawbridge rang, 
And from a loop-hole while I peep, 
Old Bell-the Cat came from the Keep, 
Wrapp'd in a gown of sables fair, 
As fearful of the morning air ; 
Beneath, when that was blown aside, 
A rusty shirt of mail I spied, 
By Archibald won in bloody work, 
Against the Saracen and Turk : 
Last night it hung not in the hall ; 
I thought some marvel would befall. 
And next I saw them saddled lead 
Old Cheviot forth, the Earl's best steed ; 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A matchless horse, though something old, 

Prompt in his paces, cool and bold. 

I heard the Sheriff Sholto say, 

The Earl did much the Master* pray 

To use him on the battle-day ; 

But he preferr'd — " " Nay, Henry, cease! 

Thou sworn horse-courser, hold thy 

peace. — 
Eustace, thou bear'st a brain— I pray 
What did Blount see at break of day?" — 

XVII. 
" In brief, my lord, we both descried 
(For then I stood by Henry's side) 
The Palmer mount, and outwards ride, 

Upon the Earl's own favourite steed : 
All sheathed he was in armour bright, 
And much resembled that same knight, 
Subdued by you in Cotswold fight : 

Lord Angus wish'd him speed." — 
The instant that Fitz-Eustace spoke, 
A sudden light on Marmion broke ; — 
"Ah! dastard fool, to reason lost!" 
He mutter'd; " 'Twas r>or fay nor ghost 
I met upon the moonlight wold, 
But living man of earthly mould. — 

O dotage blind and gross ! 
Had I but fought as wont, one thrust 
Had laid De Wilton in the dust, 

My path no more to cross. — 
How stand we now? — he told his tale 
To Douglas ; and with some avail ; 

'Twas therefore gloom'd his rugged 
brow. — 
Will Surrey dare to entertain, 
'Gainst Marmion, charge disproved and 
vain? 

Small risk of that, I trow. 
Yet Clare's sharp questions must I shun ; 
Must separate Constance from the Nun — 
O, what a tangled web we weave, 
When first we practise to deceive ! 
A Palmer too ! — no wonder why 
I felt rebuked beneath his eye : 
I might have known there was but one 
Whose look could quell Lord Marmion." 

XVIII. 

Stung with these thoughts, he urged to 

speed 
His troop, and reach'd, at eve, the Tweed, 
Where Lennel's convent closed their march. 
(There now is left but one frail arch ; 

Yet mourn thou not its cells ; 
Our time a fair exchange has made ; 



His eldest son, the Master of Angus. 



Hard by, in hospitable shade, 

A reverend pilgrim dwells, 
Well worth the whole Bernardine brood, 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood.) 
Yet did Saint Bernard's Abbot there 
Give Marmion entertainment fair, 
And lodging for his train and Clare. 
Next morn the Baron climb'd the tower, 
To view afar the Scottish power, 

Encamp'd on Flodden edge : 
The white pavilions made a show, 
Like remnants of the winter snow, 

Along the dusky ridge. 
Lord Marmion look'd :— at length his eye 
Unusual movement might descry 

Amid the shifting lines : 
The Scottish host drawn out appears, 
For, flashing on the hedge of spears 

The eastern sunbeam shines. 
Their front now deepening, now ex- 
tending ; 
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending, 
Now drawing hack, and now descending, 
The skilful Marmion well could know, 
They watch'd the motions of some foe, 
Who traversed on the plain below. 

XIX. 

Even so it was. From Flodden ridge 
The Scots beheld the English host 
Leave Barmore-wood, theireveningpost, 
And heedful watch'd them as they 
cross' d 
The Till by Twisel Bridgets 

High sight it is, and haughty, while 
They dive into the deep defile ; 
Beneath the cavern'd cliff they fall, 
Beneath the castle's airy wall. 
By rock, by oak, by hawthorn-tree, 
Troop after troop are disappearing ; 
Troop after troop their banners rearing, 
Upon the eastern bank you see. 
Still pouring down the rocky den, 

Where flows the sullen Till, 
And rising from the dim-wood glen, 
Standards on standards, men on men, 

In slow succession still, 
And, sweeping o'er the Gothic arch, 
And pressing on, in ceaseless march, 

To gain the opposing hill. 
That morn, to many a trumpet clang, 
Twisel ! thy rock's deep echo rang ; 
And many a chief of birth and rank, 
Saint Helen ! at thy fountain drank. 
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see 
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly. 



MARMION. 



ior 



Had then from many an axe its doom, 
To give the marching columns room. 

XX. 

And why stands Scotland idly now, 
Dark Flodden ! on thy airy brow, 
Since England gains the pass the while, 
And struggles through the deep defile ? 
What checks the fiery soul of James? 
Why sits that champion of the dames 

Inactive on his steed, 
And sees, between him and his land, 
Between him and Tweed's southern strand, 

His host Lord Surrey lead? 
What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand? 
— O, Douglas, for thy leading wand ! 

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed ! 
O for one hour of Wallace wight, 
Or well-skill'd Bruce, to rule the fight, 
And cry — "Saint Andrew and our 

right!" 
Another sight had seen that morn, 
From Fate's dark book a leaf been torn, 
And Flodden had been Bannockbourne ! — 
The precious hour has pass'd in vain, 
And England's host has gain'd the plain ; 
Wheeling their march, and circling still, 
Around the base of Flodden hill. 



Ere yet the bands met Marmion's eye, 
Fitz-Eustace shouted loud and high, 
" Hark! hark ! my lord, an English drum ! 
And see ascending squadrons come 

Between Tweed's river and the hill, 
Foot, horse, and cannon : — hap what hap, 
My basnet to a prentice cap, 

Lord Surrey's o'er the Till ! 
Yet more ! yet more ! — how far array'd 
They file from out the hawthorn shade, 

And sweep so gallant by : 
With all their banners bravely spread, 

And all their armour flashing high, 
St. George might waken from the dead, 

To see fair England's standards fly." — 
'Stint in thy prate," quoth Blount, 

" thou'dst best, 
And listen to our lord's behest." — 
With kindling brow Lord Marmion said,— 
" This instant be our band array'd ; 
The river must be quickly cross' d, 
That we may join Lord Surrey's host. 
If fight King James,— as well I trust, 
That fight he will, and fight he must, — 
The Lady Clare behind our lines 
Shall tarry, while the battle joins." 



Himself he swift on horseback threw, 
Scarce to the Abbot bade adieu ; 
Far less would listen to his prayer, 
To leave behind the helpless Clare. 
Down to the Tweed his band he drew, 
And mutter'd as the flood they view, 
" The pheasant in the falcon's claw, 
He scarce will yield to please a daw : 
Lord Angus may the Abbot awe, 

So Clare shall bide with me." 
Then on that dangerous ford, and deep, 
Where to the Tweed Leat's eddies creep, 

He ventured desperately : 
And not a moment will he bide, 
Till squire, or groom, before him ride; 
Headmost of all he stems the tide ; 

And stems it gallantly. 
Eustace held Clare upon her horse, 

Old Hubert led her rein, 
Stoutly they braved the current's course, 
And, though far downward driven per 
force, 

The southern bank they gain ; 
Behind them straggling, came to shore, 

As best they might, the train : 
Each o'er his head his yew-bow bore, 

A caution not in vain ; 
Deep need that day that every string, 
By wet unharm'd, should sharply ring. 
A moment then Lord Marmion staid, 
And breathed his steed, his men array'd, 

Then forward moved his band, 
Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, 
He halted by a Cross of Stone, 
That, on a hillock standing lone, 

Did all the field command. 

XXIII. 

Hence might they see the full array 
Of either host, for deadly fray ; ? 6 
Their marshall'd lines stretch'd east and 
west, 

And fronted north and south, 
And distant salutation pass'd 

From the loud cannon mouth ; 
Not in the close successive rattle, 
That breathes the voice of modern battle, 

But slow and far between. — 
The hillock gain'd, Lord Marmion staid : 
" Here, by this Cross," he gently said, 

" You well may view the scene. 
Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare . 
O ! think of Marmion in thy prayer !- - 
Thou wilt not ? — well, — no less my care 
Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.— 



102 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, 

With ten pick'd archers of my train ; 
With England if the day go hard, 

To Berwick speed amain. — 
But if we conquer, cruel maid, 
My spoils shall at your feet be laid, 

When here we meet again." 
He waited not for answer there, 
And would not mark the maid's despair, 

Nor heed the discontented look 
From either squire ; but spurr'd amain, 
And, dashing through the battle plain, 

His way to Surrey took. 

XXIV. 

" The good Lord Marmion, by my 

life ! 

Welcome to danger's hour ! 
Short greeting serves in time of strife ! 

Thus have I ranged my power : — 
Myself will rule this central host, 

Stout Stanley fronts their right, 
My sons command the vaward post, 

With Brian Tunstall, stainless knight, 77 

Lord Dacre, with his horsemen light, 

Shall be in rear-ward of the fight, 
And succour those that need it most. 

Now, gallant Marmion, well I know, 

Would gladly to the vanguard go ; 
Edmund, the Admiral, Tunstall there, 
With thee their charge will blithely share ; 
There fight thine own retainers too, 
Beneath De Burg, thy steward true." 
" Thanks, noble Surrey ! " Marmion said, 
Nor farther greeting there he paid ; 
But, parting like a thunderbolt, 
First in the vanguard made a halt, 

Where such a shout there rose 
Of " Marmion ! Marmion ! " that the cry, 
Up Flodden mountain shrilling high, 

Startled the Scottish foes. 



Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still 
With Lady Clare upon the hill ! 
On which (for far the day was spent) 
The western sunbeams now were bent. 
The cry they heard, its meaning knew, 
Could plain their distant comrades view 
Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, 
" Unworthy office here to stay ! 
No hope of gilded spurs to-day. — 
But see ! look up — on Flodden bent 
The Scottish foe has fired his tent." 

And sudden, as he spoke, 
From the sharp ridges of the hill, 
All downward to the banks of Till, 



Was wreathed in sable smoke. 
Volumed and fast, and rolling far, 
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, 

As down the hill they broke ; 
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, 
Announced their march ; their tread alone, 
At times one warning trumpet blown, 

At times a stifled hum, 
Told England, from his mountain-throne 

King James did rushing come. — 
Scarce could they hear or see their foes, 

Until at weapon-point they close. — 
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust, 
With sword-sway, and with lance's thrust ; 

And such a yell was there, 
Of sudden and portentous birth, 
As if men fought upon the earth, 
And fiends in upper air ; 
O life and death were in the shout, 
Recoil and rally, charge and rout, 

And triumph and despair. 
Long look'd the anxious squires ; their eye 
Could in the darkness nought descry. 

XXVI. 

At length the freshening western blast 
Aside the shroud of battle cast ; 
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears 
Above the brightening cloud appears ; 
And in the smoke the pennons flew, 
As in the storm the white sea-mew. 
Then mark'd they, dashing broad and far, 
The broken billows of the war, 
And plumed crests of chieftains brave, 
Floating like foam upon the wave ; 

But nought distinct they see : 
Wide raged the battle on the plain ; 
Spears shook, and falchions flash'd amain ; 
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain ; 
Crests rose, and stoop'd, and rose again, 

Wild and disorderly. 
Amid the scene of tumult, high 
They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly : 
And stainless Tunstall' s banner white, 
And Edmund Howard's lion bright, 
Still bear them bravely in the fight ; 

Although against them come, 
Of gallant Gordons many a one, 
And many a stubborn Highlandman, 
And many a rugged Border clan, 

With Huntly, and with Home. 

XXVII. 

Far on the left, unseen the while, 
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle : 
Though there the western mountaineer 
Rush'd with bare bosom on the spear, 



MARMION. 



103 



• 



And flung the feeble targe aside, 
And with both hands the broadsword plied. 
Twas vain : — But Fortune, on the right, 
With fickle smile, cheer'd Scotland's 

fight. 
Then fell that spotless banner white, 

The Howard's lion fell ; 
Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew 
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew 

Around the battle-yell. 
The Border slogan rent the sky ! 
A Home ! a Gordon ! was the cry : 

Loud were the clanging blows ; 
Advanced, — forced back, — now low, now 
high, 

The pennon sunk and rose ; 
As bends the bark's mast in the gale, 
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, 

It waver'd "mid the foes. 
No longer Blount the view could bear : 
" By Heaven, and all its saints ! I swear 

I will not see it lost ! 
Fitz-Eustaee, you with Lady Clare 
May bid your beads, and patter prayer, — 

I gallop to the host." 
And to the fray he rode amain, 
Follow'd by all the archer train. 
The fiery youth, with desperate charge, 
Made, for a space, an opening large, — 

The rescued banner rose, — 
But darkly closed the war around, 
Like pine-tree, rooted from the ground, 

It sunk among the foes. 
Then Eustace mounted too : — yet staid 
As loath to leave the helpless maid, 

When, fast as shaft can fly, 
Blood-shot his eyes, his nostrils spread, 
The loose rein dangling from his head, 
Housing and saddle bloody red, 

Lord Marmion's steed rush'd by; 
And Eustace, maddening at the sight, 

A look and sign to Clara cast 

To mark he would return in haste, 
Then plunged into the fight. 

XXVIII. 

Ask me not what the maiden feels, 
Left in that dreadful hour alone : 

Perchance her reason stoops, or reels ; 
Perchance a courage, not her own, 
Braces her mind to desperate tone. — 

The scatter'd van of England wheels : — 
She only said, as loud in air 
The tumult roar'd, " Is Wilton 

there ? " — 
They fly, or, madden'd by despair, 
Fight but to die,—" Is Wilton there?" 



With that, straight up the hill there rode 
Two horsemen drench'd with gore, 
And in their arms, a helpless load, 

A wounded knight they bore. 
His hand still strain'd the broken brand ; 
His arms were smear'd with blood and 

sand". 
Dragg'd from among the horses' feet, 
With dinted shield, and helmet beat, 
The falcon-crest and plumage gone, 
Can that be haughty Marmion ! . . . 
Young Blount his armour did unlace, 
And, gazing on his ghasdy face, 

Said — " By Saint George, he's gone! 
That spear-wound has our master sped, 
And see the deep cut on his head ! 

Good-night to Marmion." — 
" Unnurtured Blount ! thy brawling cease : 
He opes his eyes, ' ' said Eustace ; ' ' peace ! ' ' 

XXIX. 

When, doff' d his casque, he felt free air, 
Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare : — 
"Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace 

where ? 
Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare ! 
Redeem my pennon, — charge again ! 
Cry — ' Marmion to the rescue ! ' — Vain ! 
Last of my race, on battle-plain 
That shout shall ne'er be heard again ! 
Yet my last thought is England's — fly, 
To Dacre bear my signet-ring : 
Tell him his squadrons up to bring. — 
Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie ; 
Tunstall lies dead upon the field, 
His life-blood stains the spotless shield : 
Edmund is down : — my life is reft ; 
The Admiral alone is left. 
Let Stanley charge with spur of fire, — 
With Chester charge, and Lancashire, 
Full upon Scotland's central host, 
Or victory and England's lost. — 
Must I bid twice ? — hence, varlets ! fly ! 
Leave Marmion here alone — to die." 
They parted, and alone he lay ; 
Clare drew her from the sight away, 
Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan, 
And half he murmur'd, — " Is there none, 

Of all my halls have nurst, 
Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring 
Of blessed water from the spring, 
To slake my dying thirst ! " 

XXX. 

O, Woman ! in our hours of ease, 
Uncertain, coy, and hard to plsase, 
And variable as the shade 
By the light quivering aspen made*, 



ir>4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When pain and anguish wring the brow, 
A ministering angel thou !— 
Scarce were the piteous accents said, 
When, with the Baron's casque, the maid 

To the nigh streamlet ran : 
Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears ; 
The plaintive voice alone she hears, 

Sees but the dying man. 
She stoop'd her by the runnel's side, 

But in abhorrence backward drew ; 
For, oozing from the mountain's side, 
Where raged the war, a dark-red tide 

Was curdling in the streamlet blue. 
Where shall she turn ? — behold her mark 

A little fountain cell, 
Where water, clear as diamond-spark, 

In a stone basin fell. 
Above, some half-worn letters say, 

Brink . tocarrj . pilgrim . &rtnfc . art ft . prarj. 
JFor . tfce . iunrj . soul . of . Sofcil . ©ren . 

8<Kfto. fmtlt. this . cross . antf. tneU. 
She fill'd the helm, and back she hied, 
And with surprise and joy espied 

A monk supporting Marmion's head : 
A pious man, whom duty brought 
To dubious verge of battle fought, 

To shrieve the dying, bless the dead. 

XXXI. 

Deep drank Lord Marmion of the wave, 
And, as she stoop'd his brow to lave — 
" Is it the hand of Clare," he said, 
"Or injured Constance, bathes my head?" 

Then, as remembrance rose, — 
"Speak not to me of shrift or prayer ! 

I must redress her woes. 
Short space, few words, are mine to spare ; 
Forgive and listen, gentle Clare ! " — 
"Alas ! " she said, ' ' the while, — 
O, think of your immortal weal ! 
In vain for Constance is your zeal ; 

She died at Holy Isle."— 

Lord Marmion started from the ground, 
As light as if he felt no wound ; 
Though in the action burst the tide, 
In torrents, from his wounded side. 
"Then it was truth,"— he said — " I knew 
That the dark presage must be true.— 
I would the Fiend, to whom belongs 
The vengeance due to all her wrongs, 

Would spare me but a day ! 
For wasting fire, and dying groan, 
And priests slain on the altar-stone, 

Might bribe him for delay. 
It may not be ! — this dizzy trance — 
Curse on yon base marauder's lance, 



And doubly cursed my failing brand ! 
A sinful heart makes feeble hand." 
T ien, fainting, down on earth he sunk, 
F apported by the trembling Monk. 

XXXII. 
With fruitless labour, Clara bound, 
And strove to stanch the gushing wound: 
The Monk, with unavailing cares, 
Exhausted all the Church's prayers. 
Ever, he said, that, close and near, 
A lady's voice was in his ear, 
And that the priest he could not hear, 

For that she ever sung, 
"In the lost battle, borne down by the 

flying* 
Where mingles war's rattle with groans 
of the dying/" 

So the notes rung ; — 
"Avoid thee, Fiend ! — with cruel hand, 
Shake not the dying sinner's sand! — 
O, look, my son, upon yon sign 
Of the Redeemer's grace divine ; 

O, think on faith and bliss ! — 
By many a death-bed I have been, 
And many a sinner's parting seen, 

But never aught like this." — 
The war, that for a space did fail, 
Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale, 

And— Stanley ! was the cry ; 
A light on Marmion's visage spread, 

And fired his glazing eye ; 
With dying hand, above his head, 
He shook the fragment of his blade, 

And shouted "Victory ! — 
Charge, Chester, charge ! On, Stanley, 

on ! 
Were the last words of Marmion. 

XXXIII. 
By this, though deep the evening fell, 
Still rose the battle's deadly swell, 
For still the Scots, around their King, 
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. 
Where's now their victor vaward wing, 

Where Huntly, and where Home? — 
O, for a blast of that dread horn, 
On Fontarabian echoes borne, 

That to King Charles did come, 
When Rowland brave, and Olivier, 
And every paladin and peer, 

On Roncesvalles died ! 
Such blast might warn them, not in vain, 
To quit the plunder of the slain, 
And turn the doubtful day again, 

While yet on Flodden side, 
Afar, the Royal Standard flies, 



MARMION. 



<o$ 



And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, 

Our Caledonian pride ! 
In vain the wish — for far away, 
While spoil and havoc mark their way, 
Near Sybil's Cross the plunderers stray. — 
" O, Lady," cried the Monk, "away!" 

And placed her on her steed, 
And led her to the chapel fair, 

Of Tillmouth upon Tweed. 
There all the night they spent in prayer, 
And at the dawn of morning, there 
She met her kinsman, Lord Fitz-Clare. 

xxxiv. 
But as they left the dark'ning heath, 
More desperate grew the strife of death. 
The English shafts in volleys hail'd. 
In headlong charge their horse assail'd ; 
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep 
To break the Scottish circle deep, 

That fought around their King. 
But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, 
Though charging knights like whirlwinds 

go, 
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, 

Unbroken was the ring ; 
The stubborn spear-men still made good 
Their dark impenetrable wood, 
Each stepping where his comrade stood, 

The instant that he fell. 
No thought was»there of dastard flight; 
Link'd in the serried phalanx tight, 
Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, 

As fearlessly and well ; 
Till utter darkness closed her wing 
O'er their thin host and wounded King. 
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands 
Led back from strife his shatter'd bands ; 
And from the charge they drew, 
As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, 

Sweep back to ocean blue. 
Then did their loss his foemen know ; 
Their King, their Lords, their mightiest 

low, 
They melted from the field as snow, 
When streams are swoln and south winds 
blow, 

Dissolves in silent dew. 
Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, 

While many a broken band, 
Disorder'd, through her currents dash, 

To gain the Scottish land ; 
To town and tower, to down and dale, 
To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, 
And raise the universal wail. 
Tradition, legend, tune, and song, 
Shall many an age that wail prolong : 



Still from the sire the son shall hear 
Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, 

Of Flodden's fatal field, 
Where shiver'd was fair Scotland's spear, 

And broken was her shield ! 

xxxv. 

Day dawns upon the mountain's side : — 
There, Scotland! lay thy bravest pride, 
Chiefs, knights, and nobles, many a one : 
The sad survivors all are gone — 
View not that corpse mistrustfully, 
Defaced and mangled though it be ; 
Nor to yon Border Castle high, 
Look northward with upbraiding eye ; 

Nor cherish hope in vain, 
That, journeying far on foreign strand, 
The Royal Pilgrim to his land 

May yet return again. 
He saw the wreck his rashness wrought ; 
Reckless of life, he desperate fought, 

And fell on Fiodden plain ; 
And well in death his trusty brand, 
Firm clench'd within his manly hand, 

Beseem'd the monarch slain. ? 8 
But, O ! how changed since yon blithe 

night! — 
Gladly I turn me from the sight, 

Unto my tale again. 

xxxvi. 

Short is my tale : — Fitz-Eustace' care 
A pierced and mangled body bare 
To moated Lichfield's lofty pile ; 
And there, beneath the southern aisle, 
A tomb, with Gothic sculpture fair, 
Did long Lord Marmion's image bear, 
(Now vainly for its sight you look ; 
'Tvvas levell'd when fanatic Brook 
The fair cathedral storm'd and took ;?9 
But, thanks to Heaven and good Saint 

Chad, 
A guerdon meet the spoiler had !) 
There erst was martial Marmion found, 
His feet upon a couchant hound. 

His hands to heaven upraised ; 
And all around, on scutcheon rich, 
And tablet carved, and fretted niche, 

His arms and feats were blazed. 
And yet, though all was carved so fair, 
And priest for Marmion breathed the 

prayer, 
The last Lord Marmion lay not there. 
From Ettrick woods a peasant swain 
Follow'd his lord to Fiodden plain, — 
One of those flowers, whom plaintive lay 
In Scotland mourns as " wede away : " 



io6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Sore wounded, Sybil's Cross he spied, 
And dragg'd him to its foot, and died, 
Close by the noble Marmion's side. 
The spoilers stripp'd and gash'd the slain, 
And thus their corpses were mista'en ; 
And thus, in the proud Baron's tomb, 
The lowly woodsman took the room. 

XXXVII. 

Less easy task it were, to show 

Lord Marmion's nameless grave, and low. 

They dug his grave e'en where he lay, 
But every mark is gone ; 

Time's wasting hand has done away 

The simple Cross of Sybil Grey, 
And broke her font of stone : 
But yet from out the little hill 
Oozes the slender springlet still. 

Oft halts the stranger there, 
For thence may best his curious eye 
The memorable field descry ; 

And shepherd boys repair 
To seek the water-flag and rush, 
And rest them by the hazel bush, 

And plait their garlands fair ; 
Nor dream they sit upon the grave, 
That holds the bones of Marmion brave. — 
When thou shalt find the little hill, 
With thy heart commune, and be still. 
If ever, in temptation strong, 
Thou left'st the right path for the wrong ; 
If every devious step, thus trod, 
Still led thee farther from the road ; 
Dread thou to speak presumptuous doom 
On noble Marmion's lowly tomb ; 
But say, " He died a gallant knight, 
With sword in hand, for England's right." 

xxxvm. 
I do not rhyme to that dull elf, 
Who cannot image to himself, 
That all through Flodden's dismal night, 
Wilton was foremost in the fight ; 
That, when brave Surrey's steed was slain, 
'Twas Wilton mounted him again ; 
'Twas Wilton's brand that deepest hew'd, 
Amid the spearmen's stubborn wood ; 
Unnamed by^Hollinshed or Hall, 
He was the living soul of all : 



That, after fight, his faith made plain, 

He won his rank and lands again ; 

And charged his old paternal shield 

With bearings won on Flodden Field. 

Nor sing I to that simple maid, 

To whom it must in terms be said, 

That King and kinsmen did agree, 

To bless fair Clara's constancy ; 

Who cannot, unless I relate, 

Paint to her mind the bridal's state; 

That Wolsey's voice the blessing spoke, 

ATore, Sands, and Denny, pass'd the joke ; 

That bluff King Hal the curtain drew, 

And Catherine's hand the stocking threw; 

And afterwards, for many a day, 

That it was held enough to say, 

In blessing to a wedded pair, 

" Love they like Wilton and like Clare!" 



L' ENVOY. 



TO THE READER. 



Why then a final note prolong, 

Or lengthen out a closing song, 

Unless to bid the gentles speed, 

Who long have listed to my rede ? * 

To Statesmen grave, if such may deign 

To read the Minstrel's idle strain, 

Sound head, clean hand, and piercing wit, 

And patriotic heart — as Pitt ! 

A garland for the hero's crest, 

And twined by her he loves the best ; 

To every lovely lady bright, 

What can I wish but faithful knight? 

To every faithful lover too, 

What can I wish but lady true? 

And knowledge to the studious sage ; 

And pillow to the head of age. 

To thee, dear school-boy, whom my lay 

Has cheated of thy hour of play, 

Light task, and merry holiday ! 

To all, to each, a fair good night, 

And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light ! 

* Story. 



THE 

LADY OF THE LAKE 

A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



TO THE MOST NOBLE 



JOHN JAMES MARQUIS OF ABERCORN, 



ETC. ETC. ETC. 
THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED BY 

THE AUTHOR. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

After the success of " Marmion," I felt inclined to exclaim with Ulysses in the " Odyssey "— 

O^ros'fiev Stj aeflAo? aaaros eKTereAeoTai. 
Nuv aire (rtcoirbv aWov. — Odys. x- '■ 5- 

" One venturous game my hand has won to-day — 
Another, gallants, yet remains to play." 

The ancient manners, the habits and customs, of the aboriginal race by whom the" Highlands 
of Scotland were inhabited, had always appeared to me peculiarly adapted to poetry. The 
change in their manners, too, had taken place, almost within my own time, or at least I had 
learned many particulars concerning the ancient state of the Highlands from the old men of the 
last generation. I had always thought the old Scottish Gael highly adapted for poetical com- 
position. The feuds, and political dissensions, which, half a century earlier, would have 
rendered the richer and wealthier part of the kingdom indisposed to countenance a poem the 
scene of which was laid in the Highlands, were now sunk in the generous compassion which the 
English, more than any other nation, feel for the misfortunes of an honourable foe. The Poems 
of Ossian had, by their popularity, sufficiently shown, that if writings on Highland subjects were 
qualified to interest the reader, mere national prejudices were, in the present day, very unlikely 
to interfere with their success. 

I had also read a great deal, seen much, and heard more, of that romantic country, where I 
was in the habit of spending some time every autumn ; and the scenery of Loch Katrine was 
connected with the recollection of many a dear friend and merry expedition of former days. 
This poem, the action of which lay among scenes so beautiful, and so deeply imprinted on my 
recollection, was a labour of love, and it was no less so to recall the manners and incidents 
introduced. The frequent custom of James IV., and particularly of James V., to walk through 
their kingdom in disguise, afforded me the hint of an incident, which never fails to be interesting, 
if managed with the slightest address or dexterity. 

I may now confess, however, that the employment, though attended with great pleasure, was 
not without its doubts and anxieties. A lady, to whom I was nearly related, and with whom 



I lived, during her whole life, on the most brotherly terms of affection, was residing with me at 
the time when the work was in progress, and used to ask me, what I could possibly do to rise 
so early in the morning (that happening to be the most convenient time to me for composition). 
At last I told her the subject of my meditations ; and I can never forget the anxiety and affec- 
tion expressed in her reply. "Do not be so rash," she said, "my dearest cousin. You are 
already popular — more so, perhaps, than you yourself will believe, or than even I, or other 
partial friends, can fairly allow to your merit. You stand high — do not rashly attempt to climb 
higher, and incur the risk of a fall ; for, depend upon it, a favourite will not be permitted even 
to stumble with impunity." I replied to this affectionate expostulation in the words of 
Montrose — 

" He either fears his fate too much, 
Or his deserts are small, 
Who dares not put it to the touch 
To gain or lose it all." 

" If I fail," I said, for the dialogue is strong in my recollection, " it is a sign that I ought 
never to have succeeded, and I will write prose for life : you shall see no change in my temper, 
nor will I eat a single meal the worse. But if I succeed, 

' Up with the bonnie blue bonnet, 
The dirk, and the feather, and a' !'" 

Afterwards I showed my affectionate and anxious critic the first canto of the poem, which 
reconciled her to my imprudence. Nevertheless, although I answered thus confidently, with 
the obstinacy often said to be proper to these who bear my surname, I acknowledge that my 
confidence was considerably shaken by the warning of her excellent taste and unbiassed friend- 
ship. Nor was I much comforted by her retraction of the unfavourable judgment, when I re- 
collected how likely a natural partiality was to affect that change of opinion. In such cases, 
affection rises like a light on the canvas, improves any favourable tints which it formerly ex- 
hibited, and throws its defects into the shade. 

I remember that about the same time a friend started in to "heeze up my hope," like the 
" sportsman with his cutty-gun," in the old song. He was bred a farmer, but a man of powerful 
understanding, natural good taste, and warm poetical feeling, perfectly competent to supply 
the wants of an imperfect or irregular education. He was a passionate admirer of field-sports, 
which we often pursued together. 

As this friend happened to dine with me at Ashestiel one day, I took the opportunity of reading 
to him the first canto of " The Lady of the Lake," -in order to ascertain the effect the poem was 
likely to produce upon a person who was but too favourable a representative of readers at large. 
It is, of course, to be supposed, that I determined rather to guide my opinion by what my friend 
might appear to feel, than by what he might think fit to say. His reception of my recitation, 
or prelection, was rather singular. He placed his hand across his brow, and listened with great 
attention through the whole account of the stag-hunt, till the dogs threw themselves into the*" 
lake to follow their master, who embarks with Ellen Douglas. He then started up with a 
sudden exclamation, struck his hand on the table, and declared, in a voice of censure calculated 
for the occasion, that the dogs must have been totally ruined by being permitted to take the 
water after such a severe chase. I own I was much encouraged by the species of reverie which 
had possessed so zealous a follower of the sports of the ancient Nimrod, who had been com- 
pletely surprised out of all doubts of the reality of the tale. Another of his remarks gave me 
less pleasure. He detected the identity of the King with the wandering knight, Fitz-James, 
when he winds his bugle to summon his attendants. He was probably thinking of the lively, 
but somewhat licentious, old ballad, in which the denouement of a royal intrigue takes place as 
follows : — 

"He took a bugle frae his side, 
He blew both loud and shrill. 
And four-and-twenty belted knights 

Came skipping ower the hill ; 
Then he took out a little knife, 

Let a' his duddies fa', 
And he was the brawest gentleman 
That was amang them a'. 

And we'll go no more a-roving," &c* 

This discovery, as Mr. Pepys says of the rent in his camlet cloak, was but a trifle, yet it 
troubled me ; and I was at a good deal of pains to efface any marks by which I thought my 
secret could be traced before the conclusion, when I relied on it with the same hope of pro- 
ducing effect, with which the Irish post-boy is said to reserve a " trot for the avenue." 

* The Jolly Beggar, attributed to King James V.— Herd's Collection, 1776. 



THE LAD\ OF THE LAKE. 169 

I took uncommon pains to verify the accuracy of the local circumstances of this story. I 
recollect, in particular, that to ascertain whether I was telling a probable tale, I went into 
Perthshire, to see whether King James could actually have ridden from the banks of Loch 
Vennachar to Stirling Castle within the time supposed in the Poem, and had the pleasure to 
satisfy myself that it was quite practicable. 

After a considerable delay, " The Lady of the Lake " appeared in May, 1810 ; and its success 
was certainly so extraordinary as to induce me for the moment to conclude that I had at last 
fixed a nail in the proverbially inconstant wheel of Fortune, whose stability in behalf of an 
individual who had so boldly courted her favours for three successive times had not as yet been 
shaken. I had attained, perhaps, that degree of public reputation at which prudence, or cer- 
tainly timidity, would have made a halt, and discontinued efforts by which 1 was far more likely 
to diminish my fame than to increase it. But, as the celebrated John Wilkes is said to have 
explained to his late Majesty, that he himself, amid his full tide of popularity, was never a 
Wilkite, so I can, with honest truth, exculpate myself from having been at any time a partisan 
of my own poetry, even when it was in the highest fashion with the million. It must not be 
supposed that I was either so ungrateful, or so superabundantly candid, as to despise or scorn 
the value of those whose voice had elevated me so much higher than my own opinion told me I 
deserved. I felt, on the contrary, the more grateful to the public, as receiving that from par- 
tiality to me, which I could not have claimed from merit ; and I endeavoured to deserve the 
partiality, by continuing such exertions as I was capable of for their amusement. 

It may be that I did not, in this continued course of scribbling, consult either the interest of 
the public or my own. But the former had effectual means of defending themselves, and could, 
by their coldness, sufficiently check any approach to intrusion ; and for myself, I had now for 
several years dedicated my hours so much to literary labour, that 1 should have felt difficulty 
in employing myself otherwise ; and so, like Dogberry, I generously bestowed all my tedious- 
ness on the public, comforting myself with the reflection, that if posterity should think me 
undeserving of the favour with which I was regarded by my contemporaries, " they could not 
but say I had the crown," and had enjoyed for a time that popularity which is so much coveted. 

I conceived, however, that I held the distinguished situation I had obtained, however un- 
worthily, rather like the champion of pugilism, on the condition of being always ready to show 
proofs of my skill, than in the manner of the champion of chivalry, who performs his duties 
only on rare and solemn occasions. I was in any case conscious that I could not long hold a 
situation which the caprice, rather than the judgment, of the public, had bestowed upon me, 
and preferred being deprived of my precedence by some more worthy rival, to sinking into con- 
tempt for my indolence, and losing my reputation by what Scottish lawyers call the negative 
prescription. Accordingly, those who choose to look at the Introduction to Rokeby, in the 
present edition, will be able to trace the steps by which I declined as a poet to figure as a 
novelist ; as the ballad says, Queen Eleanor sunk at Charing-Cross to rise again atQueenhithe. 

It only remains for me to say, that, during my short pre-eminence of popularity, I faithfully 
observed the rules of moderation which I had resolved to follow before I began my course as 
a man of letters. If a man is determined to make a noise in the world, he is as sure to en- 
counter abuse and ridicule, as he who gallops furiously through a village must reckon on being 
followed by the curs in full cry. Experienced persons know, that in stretching to flog the latter, 
the rider is very apt to catch a bad fall ; nor is an attempt to chastise a malignant critic at- 
tended with less danger to the author. On this principle, I let parody, burlesque, and squibs, 
find their own level ; and while the latter hissed most fiercely, I was cautious never to catch 
them up, as schoolboys do, to throw them back against the naughty boy who fired them off, 
wisely remembering that they are, in such cases, apt to explode in the handling. Let me add, 
that my reign (since Byron has so called it) was marked by some instances of good-nature as 
well as patience. I never refused a literary person of merit such services in smoothing his way 
to the public as were in my power : and I had the advantage, rather an uncommon one with our 
irritable race, to enjoy general favour, without incurring permanent ill-will, so far as is known 
to me, among any of my contemporaries. 

W. S. 
Abbotsforp, April 1830. 



QtQnmtnt 

The Scene of the following Poem is laid chiefly bt the Vicinity of Loch Katrine, in the 
Western Highlands of Perthshire. The time qf Action includes Six Days, and the trans- 
actions of each Day occupy a Canto. 



-t 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



CANTO FIRST. 

THE CHASE. 

Harp of the North ! that mouldering long 
hast hung 
On the witch-elm that shades Saint 
Fillan's spring, 
And down the fitful breeze thy numbers 
flung, 
Till envious ivy did around thee cling, 
Muffling with verdant ringlet every string, — 
O minstrel Harp, still must thine accents 
sleep? 
Mid rustling leaves and fountains mur- 
muring, 
Still must thy sweeter sounds their 
silence keep, 
Nor bid a warrior smile, nor teach a maid 
to weep? 

Not thus, in ancient days of Caledon, 
Was thy voice mute amid the festal 
crowd, 
When lay of hopeless love, or glory won, 
Aroused the fearful, or subdued the 
proud. 
At each according pause, was heard aloud 
Thine ardent symphony sublime and 
high ! 
Fair dames and crested chiefs attention 
bow'd ; 
For still the burden of thy minstrelsy 
Was Knighthood's dauntless deed, and 
Beauty's matchless eye. 

O wake once more ! how rude soe'er the 
hand 
That ventures o'er thy magic maze to 
stray ; 
O wake once more! though scarce my 
skill command 
Some feeble echoing of thine earlier lay: 
Though harsh and faint, and soon to die 
away, 
And all unworthy of thy nobler strain, 
Yet if one heart throb higher at its sway, 
The wizard note has not been touch'd 
in vain. 
Then silent be no more! Enchantress, 
wake again ! 



The stag at eve had drunk his fill, 
Where danced the moon on Monan's 
And deep his midnight lair had made 
In lone Glenartney's hazel shade ; 
But, when the sun his beacon red 
Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head,* 
The deep-mouth'd bloodhound's heavy 

bay 
Resounded up the rocky way, 
And faint, from farther distance borne, 
Were heard the clanging hoof and horn. 

II. 
As Chief, who hears his warder call, 
" To arms ! the foemen storm the wall," 
The antler'd monarch of the waste 
Sprung from his heathery couch in haste. 
But, ere his fleet career he took, 
The dew-drops from his flanks he shook ; 
Like crested leader proud and high, 
Toss'd his beam'd frontlet to the sky; 
A moment gazed adown the dale, 
A moment snuff'd the tainted gale, 
A moment listen'd to the cry, 
That thicken'd as the chase drew nigh; 
Then, as the headmost foes appear'd, 
With one brave bound the copse he clear'd, 
And, stretching forward free and far, 
Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var. 

in. 

Yell'd on the view the opening pack; 
Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back ; 
To many a mingled sound at once 
The awaken'd mountain gave response. 
A hundred dogs bay'd deep and strong, 
Clatter'd a hundred steeds along, 
Their peal the merry horns rung out, 
A hundred voices join'd the shout ; 
With hark and whoop and wild halloo, 
No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. 
Far from the tumult fled the roe, 
Close in her covert cower'd the doe, 
The falcon, from her cairn on high, 
Cast on the rout a wondering eye, 

* One of the Grampian chain of mountains 
at the head of the Valley of the Garry. \ 



- 



Till far beyond her piercing ken 
The hurricane had swept the glen. 
Faint and more faint, its failing din 
Return' d from cavern, cliff, and linn, 
And silence settled, wide and still, 
On the lone wood and mighty hill. 

IV. 
Less loud the sounds of sylvan war 
Disturb' d the heights of Uam-Var, 
And roused the cavern, where 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old ; f 
For ere that steep ascent was won, 
High in his pathway hung the sun, 
And many a gallant, stay'd perforce, 
Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, 
And of the trackers of the deer, 
Scarce half the lessening pack was near ; 
So shrewdly on the mountain side 
Had the bold burst their mettle tried. 



The noble stag was pausing now, 
Upon the mountain's southern brow, 
Where broad extended, far beneath, 
The varied realms of fair Menteith. 
With anxious eye he wander'd o'er 
Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, 
And ponder' d refuge from his toil, 
By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. 
But nearer was the copsewood gray, 
That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, 
And mingled with the pine-trees blue 
On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. 
Fresh vigour with the hope retum'd, 
With flying foot the heath he spurn'd, 
Held westward with unwearied race, 
And left behind the panting chase. 

VI. 

'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, 
As swept the hunt through Cambus-more ; 
What reins were tighten'd in despair, 
When rose Benledi's ridge in air; * 
Who fiagg'd upon Bochastle's heath, 
Who shunn'd to stem the flooded Teith,+ — 
For t.vice that day, from shore to shore, 
The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. 
Few were the stragglers, following far, 
That reach'd the lake of Venachar ; 
And when the Brigg J of Turk was won, 
The headmost horseman rode alone. 

* Benledi is a high mountain on the north- 
west of Callender. Its name signifies the 
mountain of God. 

t A river which gives its name to the territory 
of Menteith. 

t Brigg, a bridge. 



VII. 
Alone, but with unbated zeal, 
That horseman plied the scourge and steel ; 
For jaded now, and spent with toil, 
Emboss'd with foam, and dark with soil, 
While every gasp with sobs he drew, 
The labouring stag strain'd full in view. 
Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 
Unmatch'dforcourage, breath, andspeed, 2 
Fast on his flying traces came, 
And all but won that desperate game ; 
For, scarce a spear's length from his 

haunch, 
Vindictive toil'd the bloodhounds staunch ; 
Nor nearer might the dogs attain, 
Nor farther might the quarry strain. 
Thus up the margin of the lake, 
Between the precipice and brake, 
O'er stock and rock their race they take. 



The Hunter mark'd that mountain high, 
The lone lake's western boundary, 
And deem'd the stag must turn to bay, 
Where that huge rampart barr'd the way ; 
Already glorying in the prize, 
Measured his antlers with his eyes ; 
For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
Muster' d his breath, his whinyard drew ;3 — 
But thundering as he came prepared, 
With ready arm and weapon bared, 
The wily quarry shunn'd the shock, 
And turn'd him from the opposing rock ; 
Then, dashing down a darksome glen, 
Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, 
In the deep Trosach's wildest nook 
His solitary refuge took . 
There, while close couch'd, the thicket shed 
Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, 
He heard the baffled dogs in vain 
Rave through the hollow pass amain, 
Chiding the rocks that yell'd again. 



Close on the hounds the Hunter came, 
To cheer them on the vanish'd game ; 
But, stumbling in the rugged dell, 
The gallant horse exhausted fell. 
The impatient rider strove in vain 
To rouse him with the spur and rein, 
For the good steed, his labours o'er, 
Stretch'd his stiff limbs, to rise no more , 
Then, touch'd with pity and remorse, 
He sorrow'd o'er the expiring horse. 
" I little thought, when first thy rein 
I slack'd upon the banks of Seine, 



t!2 



scott's Poetical works. 



That Highland eagle e'er should feed 
On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed ! 
Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, 
That costs thy life, my gallant gray ! " 

x 

Then through the dell his horn resounds, 
From vain pursuit to call the hounds. 
Back limp'd, with slow and crippled pace, 
The sulky leaders of the chase ; 
Close to their master's side they press'd, 
With drooping tail and humbled crest ; 
But still the dingle's hollow throat 
Prolong'd the swelling bugle-note. 
The owlets started from their dream, 
The eagles answer'd with their scream, 
Round and around the sounds were cast, 
Till echo seem'd an answering blast ; 
And on the Hunter hied his way, 
To join some comrades of the day ; 
Yet often paused, so strange the road, 
So wondrous were the scenes it show'd. 



The western waves of ebbing day 
Roll'd o'er the glen their level way ; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below, 
Where twined the path in shadow hid, 
Round many a rocky pyramid, 
Shooting abruptly from the dell 
Its thunder-splinter'd pinnacle ; 
Round many an insulated mass, 
The native bulwarks of the pass, 
Huge as the tower* which builders vain 
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain. 
The rocky summits, split and rent, 
Form'd turret, dome, or battlement, 
Or seem'd fantastically set 
With cupola or minaret, 
Wild crests as pagod ever deck'd, 
Or mosque of Eastern architect. 
Nor were these earth-born castles bare, 
Nor lack'd they many a banner fair ; 
For, from their shiver'd brows display'd, 
Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 
All twinkling with the dewdrops sheen, 
The brier-rose fell in streamers green, 
And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes, 
Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs. 

XII. 

Boon nature scatter'd, free and wild, 
Each plant or flower, the mountain's child, 



* The Tower of Babel. — Genesis xi. i — 9. 



Here eglantine embalm'd the air, 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there ; 
The primrose pale and violet flower, 
Found in each cliff a narrow bower ; 
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side, 
Emblems of punishment and pride, 
Group'd their dark hues with every stain 
The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every breath, 
Gray birch and aspen wept beneath ; 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anchor in the rifted rock ; 
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shatter'd trunk, and frequent flung, 
Where seem'd the cliffs to meet on high, • 
His boughs athwart the narrow'd sky. 
Highest of all, where white peaks glanced, 
Where glist'ning streamers waved and 

danced, 
The wanderer's eye could barely view 
The summer heaven's delicious blue; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might seem 
The scenery of a fairy dream. 



Onward, amid the copse 'gan peep 
A narrow inlet, still and deep, 
Affording scarce such breadth of brim, 
As served the wild duck's brood to swim, 
Lost for a space, through thickets veering, 
But broader when again appearing, 
Tall rocks and tufted knolls their face 
Could on the dark -blue mirror trace ; 
And farther as the hunter stray'd, 
Still broader sweeps its channels made. 
The shaggy mounds no longer stood, 
Emerging from entangled wood, 
But, wave-encircled , seem'd to float, 
Like castle girdled with its moat ; 
Yet broader floods extending still 
Divide them from their parent hill, 
Till each, retiring, claims to be 
An islet in an inland sea. 

XIV. 

And now, to issue from the glen^ 

No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 

Unless he climb, with footing nice, 

A far projecting precipice. 4 

The broom's tough roots his ladder made, 

The hazel saplings lent their aid ; 

And thus an airy point he won, 

Where, gleaming with the setting sun, 

One burnish'd sheet of living gold, 

Loch Katrine lay beneath him roll'd. 

In all her length far winding lay, 

With promontory, creek, and bay, 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



"3 



And islands that, empurpled bright, 

Floated amid the livelier light, 

And mountains, that like giants stand, 

To sentinel enchanted land. 

High on the south, huge Benvenue 

Down on the lake in masses threw 

Crags, knolls, and mounds, confusedly 

hurl'd, 
The fragments of an earlier world ; 
A wildering forest feather'd o'er 
His ruin'd sides and summit hoar, 
While on the north, through middle air, 
Ben-an heaved high his forehead bare. 

XV. 

From the steep promontory gazed 
The stranger, raptured and amazed. 
And, "What a scene were here," he cried, 
"For princely pomp, or churchman's 

pride ! 
On this bold brew, a lordly tower ; 
In that soft vale, a lady's bower ; 
On yonder meadow, far away, 
The turrets of a cloister gray ; 
How blithely might the bugle-horn 
Chide, on the lake, the lingering morn ! 
How sweet, at eve, the lover's lute 
Chime, when the groves were still and 

mute ! 
And, when the midnight moon should lave 
Her forehead in the silver wave, 
How solemn on the ear would come 
The holy matins' distant hum, 
While the deep peal's commanding tone 
Should wake, in yonder islet lone, 
A sainted hermit from his cell, 
To drop a bead with every knell — 
And bugle, lute, and bell, and all, 
Should each bewilder' d stranger call 
To friendly feast, and lighted hall. 

XVI. 

" Blithe were it then to wander here ! 
But now, — beshrew yon nimble deer, — 
Like that same hermit's, thin and spare, 
The copse must give my evening fare ; 
Some mossy bank my couch must be, 
Some rustling oak my canopy. 
Yet pass we that ; the war and chase 
Give little choice of resting-place ; — 
A summer night, in greenwood spent, 
Were but to-morrow's merriment : 
But hosts may in these wilds abound, 
Such as are better miss'd than found ; 
To meet with Highland plunderers here, 
Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — S 
I am alone ; — my bugle strain 
May call some straggler of the train ; 



Or, fall the worst that may betide, 
Ere now this falchion has been tried." 



But scarce again his horn he wound, 

When lo ! forth starting at the sound, 

From underneath an aged oak, 

That slanted from the islet rock, 

A damsel guider of its way, 

A little skiff shot to the bay, 

That round the promontory steep 

Led its deep line in graceful sweep, 

Eddying in almost viewless wave, 

The weeping willow-twig to lave, 

And kiss, with whispering sound and slow, 

The beach of pebbles bright as snow. 

The boat had touch'd this silver strand, 

Just as the Hunter left his stand, 

And stood conceal'd amid the brake, 

To view this Lady of the Lake. 

The maiden paused, as if again 

She thought to catch the distant strain. 

With head up-raised, and look intent, 

And eye and ear attentive bent, 

And locks flung back, and lips apart, 

Like monument of Grecian art, 

In listening mood, she seem'd to stand, 

The guardian Naiad of the strand. 

XVIII. 

And ne'er did Grecian chisel trace 

A Nymph, a Naiad, or a Grace, 

Of finer form, or lovelier face ! 

What though the sun, with ardent frown, 

Had slightly tinged her cheek with 

brown, — 
The sportive toil, which, short and light, 
Had dyed her glowing hue so bright, 
Served too in hastier swell to show 
Short glimpses of a breast of snow : 
What though no rule of courtly grace 
To measured mood had train'd her pace, — 
A foot more light, a step more true, 
Ne'er from the heath-flower dash'd the 

dew; 
E'en the slight harebell raised its head, 
Elastic from her airy tread : 
What though upon her speech there hung 
The accents of the mountain tongue, — 
Those silver sounds, so soft, so dear, 
The listener held his breath to hear ! 

XIX. 

A Chieftain's daughter seem'd the maid ; 
Her satin snood,* her silken plaid, 
Her golden brooch, such birth betray'd. 



• Snood, the fillet worn round the hair of 
maidens. 



ii 4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And seldom was a snood amid 
Such wild luxuriant ringlets hid, 
Whose glossy black to shame might bring 
The plumage of the raven's wing ; 
And seldom o'er a breast so fair, 
Mantled a plaid with modest care, 
And never brooch the folds combined 
Above a heart more good and kind. 
Her kindness and her worth to spy, 
You need but gaze on Ellen's eye ; 
Not Katrine, in her mirror blue, 
Gives back the shaggy banks more true, 
Than every free-born glance confess'd 
The guileless movements of her breast ; 
Whether joy danced in her dark eye, 
Or woe or pity claim' d a sigh, 
Or filial love was glowing there, 
Or meek devotion pour'd a prayer, 
Or tale of injury call'd forth 
The indignant spirit of the North. 
One only passion unreveal'd, 
With maiden pride the maid conceal'd, 
Yet not less purely felt the flame ; — 
O need I tell that passion's name ! 

xx. 

Impatient of the silent horn, 
Now on the gale her voice was borne ; — 
" Father ! " she cried ; the rocks around 
Loved to prolong the gentle sound. 
Awhile she paused, no answer came, — 
"Malcolm, was thine the blast?" the 

name 
Less resolutely utter'd fell, 
The echoes could not catch the swell. 
" A stranger I," the Huntsman said, 
Advancing from the hazel shade. 
The maid, alarm'd, with hasty oar, 
Push'd her light shallop from the shore, 
And when a space was gain'd between, 
Closer she drew her bosom's screen ; 
(So forth the startled swan would swing, 
So turn to prune his ruffled wing.) 
Then safe, though flutter'd and amazed, 
She paused, and on the stranger gazed. 
Not his the form, nor his the eye, 
That youthful maidens wont to fly. 

XXI. 

On his bold visage middle age 
Had slightly press' d its signet sage 
Yet had not quench'd the open truth 
And fiery vehemence of youth ; 
Forward and frolic glee was there, 
The will to do, the soul to dare, 
The sparkling glance, soon blown to fire, 
Of hasty love, or headlong ire. 



His limbs were cast in manly mould, 

For hardy sports or contest bold ; 

And though in peaceful garb array' d, 

And weaponless, except his blade, 

His stately mien as well implied 

A high-born heart, a martial pride, 

As if a Baron's crest he wore, 

And sheathed in armour trode the shore. 

Slighting the petty need he show'd, 

He told of his benighted road ; 

His ready speech flow'd fair and free, 

In phrase of gentlest courtesy ; 

Yet seem'd that tone, and gesture bland. 

Less used to sue than to command. 

XXII. 

A while the maid the stranger eyed, 
And, reassured, at length replied, 
That Highland halls were open still 
To wilder'd wanderers of the hill. 
' ' Nor think you unexpected come 
To yon lone isle, our desert home ; 
Before the heath had lost the dew, 
This morn, a couch was pull'd for you ; 
On yonder mountain's purple head 
Have ptarmigan and heath-cock bled, 
And our broad nets have swept the 

mere, 
To furnish forth your evening cheer." — 
" Now, by the rood, my lovely maid, 
Your courtesy has err'd," he said ; 
" No right have I to claim, misplaced, 
The welcome of expected guest. 
A wanderer, here by fortune tost, 
My way, my friends, my courser lost, 
I ne'er before, believe me, fair, 
Have ever drawn your mountain air, 
Till on this lake's romantic strand, 
I found a fay in fairy land ! " — 

XXIII. 

" I well believe," the maid replied, 
As her light skiff approach 'd the side, — 
' ' I well believe, that ne'er before 
Your foot has trod Loch Katrine's shore; 
But yet, as far as yesternight, 
Old Allan-Bane foretold your plight, — 
A gray-hair'd sire, whose eye intent 
Was on the vision' d future bent. 6 
He saw your steed, a dappled gray, 
Lie dead beneath the birchen way ; 
Painted exact your form and mien, 
Your hunting suit of Lincoln green, 
That tassell'd horn so gaily gilt, 
That falchion's crooked blade and hilt, 
That cap with heron plumage trim, 
And yon two hounds so dark and grim. 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



"5 



He bade that all should ready be, 

To grace a guest of fair degree ; 

But light I held his prophecy, 

And deem'd it was my father's horn, 

Whose echoes o'er the lake were borne." 

XXIV. 

The stranger smiled : — " Since to your 

home 
A destined errant-knight I come, 
Announced by prophet sooth and old, 
Doom'd, doubtless, for achievement bold, 
I'll lightly front each high emprise, 
For one kind glance of those bright eyes. 
Permit me, first, the task to guide 
Your fairy frigate o'er the tide." 
The maid, with smile suppress'd and sly, 
The toil unwonted saw him try ; 
For seldom sure, if e'er before, 
His noble hand had grasp'd an oar : 
Yet with main strength his strokes he drew, 
And o'er the lake the shallop flew ; 
With heads erect, and whimpering cry, 
The hounds behind their passage ply. 
Nor frequent does the bright oar break 
The dark'ning mirror of the lake, 
Until the rocky isle they reach, 
And moor their shallop on the beach . 

xxv. 
The stranger view'd the shore around, 
'Twas all so close with copsewood bound, 
Nor track nor pathway might declare 
That human foot frequented ther,e, 
Until the mountain-maiden show'd 
A clambering unsuspected road, 
That winded through the tangled screen, 
And open'd on a narrow green, 
Where weeping birch and willow round 
With their long fibres swept the ground. 
Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 7 

XXVI. 

It was a lodge of ample size, 

But strange of structure and device ; 

Of such materials, as around 

The workman's hand had readiest found. 

Lopp'd off their boughs, their hoar trunks 

bared, 
And by the hatchet rudely squared, 
To give the walls their destined height, 
The sturdy oak and ash unite ; 
While moss and clay and leaves combined 
To fence each crevice from the wind. 
The lighter pine-trees, over-head, 
Their slender length for rafters spread, 
And wither'd heath and rushes dry 



Supplied a russet canopy. 

Due westward, fronting to the green, 

A rural portico was seen, 

Aloft on native pillars borne, 

Of mountain fir, with bark unshorn, 

Where Ellen's hand taught to twine 

The ivy and Idaean vine, 

The clematis, the favour'd flower 

Which boasts the name of virgin-bower, 

And every hardy plant could bear 

Loch Katrine's keen and searching air. 

An instant in this porch she staid, 

And gaily to the stranger said, 

' ' On heaven and on thy lady call, 

And enter the enchanted hall! " 

XXVII. 

" My hope, my heaven, my trust must be. 
My gentle guide, in following thee." 
He cross'd the threshold — and a clang 
Of angry steel that instant rang. 
To his bold brow his spirit rush'd, 
But soon for vain alarm he blush'd, 
When on the floor he saw display' d, 
Cause of the din, a naked blade 
Dropp'd from the sheath, that careless 

flung 
Upon a stag's huge antlers swung ; 
For all around, the walls to grace, 
Hung trophies of the fight or chase : 
A target there, a bugle here, 
A battle-axe, a hunting-spear, 
And broadswords, bows, and arrows store, 
With the tusk'd trophies of the boar. 
Here grins the wolf as when he died, 
And there the wild-cat's brindled hide 
The frontlet of the elk adorns, 
Or mantles o'er the bison's horns ; 
Pennons and flags defaced and stain'd, 
That blackening streaks of blood retain' d, 
And deer-skins, dappled, dun, and white, 
With otter's fur and seal's unite, 
In rude and uncouth tapestry all 
To garnish forth the sylvan hall. 



The wondering stranger round him gazed, 
And next the fallen weapon raised : — 
Few were the arms whose sinewy strength 
Sufficed to stretch it forth at length, 
And as the brand he poised and sway'd, 
" I never knew but one," he said, 
"Whose stalwart arm might brook to 

wield 
A blade like this in battle-field." 
She sigh'd, then smiled and took the word ; 
"You see the guardian champion's sword ; 



n6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



As light it trembles in his hand, 

As in my grasp a hazel wand ; 

My sire's tall form might grace the part 

Of Ferragns or Ascabart ; 8 

But in the absent giant's hold 

Are women now, and menials old." 



The mistress of the mansion came, 

Mature of age, a graceful dame ; 

Whose easy step and stately port 

Had well become a princely court, 

To whom, though more than kindred 

knew, 
Young Ellen gave a mother's due. 
Meet welcome to her guest she made, 
And every courteous rite was paid, 
That hospitality could claim, 
Though all unask'd his birth and name.' 
Such then the reverence to a guest, 
That fellest foe might join the feast, 
And from his deadliest foeman's door 
Unquestion'd turn, the banquet o'er. 
At length his rank the stranger names, 
"The Knight of Snow doun, James Fitz- 

James ; 
Lord of a barren heritage, 
Which his brave sires, from age to age, 
By their good swords had held with toil ; 
His sire had fallen in such turmoil, 
And he, God wot, was forced to stand 
Oft for his right with blade in hand. 
This morning, with Lord Moray's train, 
He chased a stalwart stag in vain, 
Outstripp'd his comrades, miss'd the deer, 
Lost his good steed, and wander'd here." 

XXX. 

Fain would the knight in turn require 
The name and state of Ellen's sire. 
Well show'd the elder lady's mien, 
That courts and cities she had seen ; 
Ellen, though more her looks display'd 
The simple grace of sylvan maid, 
In speech and gesture, form and face, 
Show'd she was come of gentle race. 
'Twere strange, in ruder rank to find, 
Such looks, such manners, and such mind. 
Each hint the Knight of Snowdoun gave, 
Dame Margaret heard with silence grave ; 
Or Ellen, innocently gay, 
Turn'd all inquiry light away : — 
"Weird women we ! by dale and down 
We dwell, afar from tower and town. 
We stem the flood, we ride the blast, 
On wandering knights our spells we cast ; 



While viewless minstrels touch the string, 
'Tis thus our charmed rhymes we sing." 
She sung, and still a harp unseen 
Fill'd up the symphony between. 

XXXI. 

SONG. 

"Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 

Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking ; 
Dream of battled fields no more, 

Days of danger, nights of waking. 
In our isle's enchanted hall, 

Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, 
Fairy strains of music fall, 

Every sense in slumber dewing. 
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er, 
Dream of fighting fields no more : 
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, 
Morn of toil, nor night of waking. 

" No rude sound shall reach thine ear, 

Armour's clang, or war-steed champing, 
Trump nor pibroch summon here 

Mustering clan, or squadron tramping ; 
Yet the lark's shrill fife may come 

At the day-break from the fallow, 
And the bittern sound his drum, 

Booming from the sedgy shallow. 
Ruder sounds shall none be near, 
Guards nor warders challenge here ; 
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing. 
Shouting clans, or squadrons stamping." 

XXXII. 

She paused — then, blushing, led the lay 
To grace the stranger of the day. 
Her mellow notes awhile prolong 
The cadence of the flowing song 
Till to her lips in measured framft 
The minstrel verse spontaneous came. 

SONG CONTINUED. 
" Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 

While our slumb'rous spells assail ye, 
Dream not, with the rising sun, 

Bugles here shall sound reveille^ 
Sleep ! the deer is in his den ; 

Sleep ! thy hounds are by thee lying ; 
Sleep ! nor dream in yonder glen, 

How thy gallant steed lay dying. 
Huntsman, rest ! thy chase is done, 
Think not of the rising sun, 
For at dawning to assail ye, 
Here no bugles sound reveilleV' 

XXXIII. 

The hall was clear' d— the stranger's bed 
Was there of mountain heather spread, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



117 



Where oft a hundred guests had lain, 

And dream'd their forest sports again. 

But vainly did the heath-flower shed 

Its moorland fragrance round his head ; 

Not Ellen's spell had lull'd to rest 

The fever of his troubled breast. 

In broken dreams the image rose 

Of varied perils, pains, and woes : 

His steed now flounders in the brake, 

Now sinks his barge upon the lake ; 

Now leader of a broken host, 

His standard falls, his honour's lost. 

Then, — from my couch may heavenly might 

Chase that worst phantom of the night ! — 

Again return'd the scenes of youth, 

Of confident undoubting truth ; 

Again his soul he interchanged 

With friends whose hearts were long 

estranged. 
They come, in dim procession led, 
The cold, the faithless, and the dead ; 
As warm each hand, each brow as gay, 
As if they parted yesterday. 
And doubt distracts him at the view. 
O, were his senses false or true? 
Dream'd he of death, or broken vow, 
Or is it all a vision now? 

XXXIV. 

At length, with Ellen in a grove 

He seem'd to walk, and speak of love ; 

She listen' d with a blush and sigh, 

His suit was warm, his hopes were high, 

He sought her yielded hand to clasp, 

And a cold gauntlet met his grasp : 

The phantom's sex was changed and gone, 

Upon its head a helmet shone ; 

Slowly enlarged to giant size, 

With darken 'd cheek and threatening eyes, 

The grisly vrsage, stern and hoar, 

To Ellen still a likeness bore. — 

He woke, and panting with affright, 

Recall'd the vision of the night. 

The hearth's decaying brands were red, 

And deep and dusky lustre shed, 

Half showing, half concealing, all 

The uncouth trophies of the hall. 

'Mid those the stranger fix'd his eye, 

Where that huge falchion hung on high, 

And thoughts on thoughts, a countless 

throng, 
Rush'd, chasing countless thoughts along, 
Until, the giddy whirl to cure, 
He rose, and sought the moonshine pure. 

xxxv. 
The wild rose, eglantine, and broom, 
Wafted around their rich perfume : 



The birch-trees wept in fragrant balm, 
The aspens slept beneath the calm ; 
The silver light, with quivering glance, 
Play'd on the water's still expanse, — 
Wild were the heart whose passions' sway 
Could rage beneath the sober ray ! 
He felt its calm, that warrior guest, 
While thus he communed with his breast : — 
" Why is it, at each turn I trace 
Some memory of that exiled race! 
Can I not mountain-maiden spy, 
But she must bear the Douglas eye? 
Can I not view a Highland brand, 
But it must match the Douglas hand? 
Can I not frame a fever'd dream, 
But still the Douglas is the theme ? 
I'll dream no more— by manly mind 
Not even in sleep is will resign'd. 
My midnight orisons said o'er, 
I'll turn to rest, and dream no more." 
His midnight orisons he told, 
A prayer with every bead of gold, 
Consign'd to heaven his cares and woes, 
And sunk in undisturb'd repose ; 
Until the heath-cock shrilly crew, 
And morning dawn'd on Benvenue. 



CANTO SECOND. 

THE ISLAND. 
I. 

At morn the black-cock trims his jetty 
wing, 
'Tis morning prompts the linnet's blith- 
est lay, 
All Nature's children feel the matin spring 

Of life reviving, with reviving day ; 
And while yon little bark glides down the 
bay, 
Wafting the stranger on his way again, 
Morn's genial influence roused a minstrel 
gray, 
And sweetly o'er the lake was heard thy 
strain, 
Mix'd with the sounding harp, O white- 
hair'd Allan-Bane ! 10 

II. 

SONG. 

" Not faster yonder rowers' might 
Flings from their oars the spray, 
Not faster yonder rippling bright, 
That tracks the shallop's course in light, 
Melts in the lake away, 



nS 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Than men from memory erase 

The benefits of former days ; 

Then, stranger, go! good speed the while, 

Nor think again of the lonely isle. 

" High place to thee in royal court, 

High place in battle line, 
Good hawk and hound for sylvan sport, 
Where beauty sees the brave resort, 

The honour'd meed be thine ! 
True be thy sword, thy friend sincere, 
Thy lady constant, kind, and dear, 
And lost in love and friendship's smile 
Be memory of the lonely isle. 



SONG CONTINUED. 

" But if beneath yon southern sky 

A plaided stranger roam, 
Whose drooping crest and stifled sigh, 
And sunken cheek and heavy eye, 

Pine for his Highland home ; 
Then, warrior, then be thine to show 
The care that soothes a wanderer's woe ; 
Remember then thy hap erewhile, 
A stranger in the lonely isle. 
" Or if on life's uncertain main 

Mishap shall mar thy sail ; 
If faithful, wise, and brave in vain, 
Woe, want, and exile thou sustain 

Beneath the fickle gale ; 
Waste not a sigh on fortune changed, 
On thankless courts, or friends estranged, 
But come where kindred worth shall smile, 
To greet thee in the lonely isle." 

IV. 

As died the sounds upon the tide, 
The shallop reach'd the mainland side, 
And ere his onward way he took, 
The stranger cast a lingering look, 
Where easily his eye might reach 
The Harper on the islet beach, 
Reclined against a blighted tree, 
As wasted, gray, and worn as he. 
To minstrel meditation given, 
His reverend brow was raised to heaven, 
As from the rising sun to claim 
A sparkle of inspiring flame. 
His hand, reclined upon the wire, 
Seem'd watching the awakening fire ; 
So still he sate, as those who wait 
Till judgment speak the doom of fate ; 
So still, as if no breeze might dare 
To lift one lock of hoary hair ; 
So still, as life itself were fled, 
In the last sound his harp had sped. 



Upon a rock with lichens wild, 
Beside him Ellen sate and smiled. — 
Smiled she to see the stately drake 
Lead forth his fleet upon the lake, 
While her vex'd spaniel from the beach, 
Bay'd at the prize beyond his reach? 
Yet tell me, then, the maid who knows, 
Why deepen' d on her cheek the rose ?— 
Forgive forgive, Fidelity ! 
Perchance the maiden smiled to see 
Yon parting lingerer wave adieu, 
And stop and turn to wave anew ; 
And, lovely ladies, ere your ire 
Condemn the heroine of my lyre, 
Show me the fair would scorn to spy, 
And prize such conquest of her eye ! 
VI. 

While yet he loiter'd on the spot, 
It seem'd as Ellen mark'd him not ; 
But when he turn'd him to the glade, 
One courteous parting sign she made ; 
And after oft the knight would say, 
That not when prize of festal day 
Was dealt him by the brightest fair 
Who e'er wore jewel in her hair, 
So highly did his bosom swell, 
As at that simple mute farewell. 
Now with a trusty mountain-guide, 
And his dark stag-hounds by his side, 
He parts— the maid, unconscious still, 
Watch'd him wind slowly round the hill ; 
But when his stately form was hid, 
The guardian in her bosom chid — 
" Thy Malcolm ! vain and selfish maid ! ' 
'Twas thus upbraiding conscience said,— 
' ' Not so had Malcolm idly hung 
On the smooth phrase of southern tongue ; 
Not so had Malcolm strain'd his eye, 
Another step than thine to spy. 
Wake, Allan-Bane," aloud she cried, 
To the old Minstrel by her side, — 
' ' Arouse thee from thy moody dream ! 
I'll give thy harp heroic theme, 
And warm thee with a noble name ; 
Pour forth the glory of the Graeme ! " " 
Scarce from her lip the w-ord had rush'd, 
When deep the conscious maiden blush' d", 
For of his clan, in hall and bower, 
Young Malcolm Graeme was held the 
flower. 

VII. 

The Minstrel waked his harp— three times 
Arose the well-known martial chimes, 
And thrice their high heroic pride 
In melancholy murmurs died. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



119 



"Vainly thou bid'st, O noble maid," 

Clasping his wither' d hands, he said, 

"Vainly thou bid'st me wake the strain, 

Though all unwont to bid in vain. 

Alas ! than mine a mightier hand 

Has tuned my harp, my strings has spann' d ! 

I touch the chords of joy, but low 

And mournful answer notes of woe ; 

And the proud march, which victors tread, 

Sinks in the wailing for the dead. 

O well for me, if mine alone 

That dirge's deep prophetic tone ! 

If, as my tuneful fathers said, 

This harp, which erst Saint Modan 

sway'd, 12 
Can thus its master's fate foretell, 
Then welcome be the minstrel's knell ! 

vin. 
" But ah ! dear lady, thus it sigh'd 
The eve thy sainted mother died ; 
And such the sounds which, while I strove 
To wake a lay of war or love, 
Came marring all the festal mirth, 
Appalling me who gave them birth, 
And, disobedient to my call, 
Wail'd loud through Bothwell's banner'd 
- hall, 

Ere Douglasses, to ruin driven,^ 
Were exiled from their native heaven. — 
Oh ! if yet worse mishap and woe 
My master's house must undergo, 
Or aught but weal to Ellen fair 
Brood in these accents of despair, 
No future bard, sad Harp ! shall fling 
Triumph or rapture from thy string ; 
One short, one final strain shall flow, 
Fraught with unutterable woe, 
Then shiver' d shall thy fragments lie, 
Thy master cast him down and die ! " 

IX. 

Soothing she answer'd him, "Assuage, 
Mine honour'd friend, the fears of age ; 
All melodies to thee are known, 
That harp has rung, or pipe has blown, 
In Lowland vale or Highland glen, 
From Tweed to Spey— what marvel, then, 
At times, unbidden notes should rise, 
Confusedly bound in memory's ties, 
Entangling, as they rush along, 
The war-march with the funeral song? — 
Small ground is now for boding fear ; 
Obscure, but safe, we rest us here. 
My sire, in native virtue great, 
Resigning lordship, lands, and state, 
Not then to fortune more resign'd 
Than yonder oak might give the wind ; 



The graceful foliage storms may reave, 

The noble stem they cannot grieve. 

For me," — she stoop'd, and, looking 

round, 
Pluck'd a blue hare-bell from the ground. — 
" For me, whose memory scarce conveys 
An image of more splendid days, 
This little flower, that loves the lea, 
May well my simple emblem be ; 
It drinks heaven's dew as blithe as rose 
That in the king s own garden grows ; 
And when I place it in my hair, 
Allan, a bard is bound to swear 
He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 
Then playfully the chaplet wild 
She wreath'd in her dark locks, and 

smiled. 

x. 
Her smile, her speech, with winning sway, 
Wiled the old harper's mood away. 
With such a look as hermits throw, 
When angels stoop to soothe their woe, 
He gazed, till fond regret and pride 
Thrill'd to a tear, then thus replied : 
" Loveliest and best ! thou little know'st, 
The rank, the honours, thou hast lost ! 
O might I live to see thee grace, 
In Scotland's court, thy birth-right place, 
To see my favourite's step advance, 
The lightest in the courtly dance, 
The cause of every gallant's sigh, 
And leading star of every eye, 
And theme of every minstrel's art, 
The Lady of the Bleeding Heart ! " * — 

XI. 

" Fair dreams are these," the maiden cried, 
(Light was her accent, yet she sigh'd ;) 
' ' Yet in this mossy rock to me 
Worth splendid chair and canopy ; 
Nor woufd my footsteps spring more gay 
In courtly dance than blithe strathspey, 
Nor half so pleased mine ear incline, 
To royal minstrel's lay as thine. 
And then for suitors proud and high, 
To bend before my conquering eye, — 
Thou, flattering bard ! thyself wilt say, 
That grim Sir Roderick owns its sway. 
The Saxon scourge, Clan-Alpine's pride, 
The terror of Loch Lomond's side, 
Would, at my suit, thou know'st, delay 
A Lennox foray — for a day." — 

XII. 

The ancient bard his glee repress'd : . 
" 111 hast thou chosen theme for jest ! 



* The cognizance of the Douglas family, 



120 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORK'S. 



For who, through all this western wild, 
Named Black Sir Roderick e'er, and 

smiled ! 
In Holy-Rood a knight he slew ; 14 
I saw, when back the dirk he drew, 
Courtiers give place before the stride 
Of the undaunted homicide ; 
And since, though outlaw'd, hath his hand 
Full sternly kept his mountain land. 
Who else dared give — ah ! woe the day, 
That I such hated truth should say — 
The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
Disown'd by every noble peer, x 5 
Even the rude refuge we have here ? 
Alas, this wild marauding Chief 
Alone might hazard our relief, 
And now thy maiden charms expand, 
Looks for his guerdon in thy hand ; 
Full soon may dispensation sought, 
To back his suit, from Rome be brought. 
Then, though an exile on the hill, 
Thy father, as the Douglas, still 
Be held in reverence and fear ; 
And though to Roderick thou'rt so dear, 
That thou might'st guide with silken 

thread, 
Slave of thy will, this chieftain dread ; 
Yet, O loved maid, thy mirth refrain ! 
Thy hand is on a lion's mane." — 

XIII. 

"Minstrel," the maid replied, and high 
Her father's soul glanced from her eye, 
"My debts to Roderick's house I know : 
All that a mother could bestow, 
To Lady Margaret's care I owe, 
Since first an orphan in the wild 
She sorrow'd o'er her sister's child ; 
To her brave chieftain son, from ire 
Of Scotland's king who shrouds my sire, 
A deeper, holier debt is owed ; 
And, could I pay it with my blood, 
Allan ! Sir Roderick should command 
My blood, my life, — but not my hand. 
Rather will Ellen Douglas dwell 
A votaress in Maronnan's cell ; l6 
Rather through realms beyond the sea, 
Seeking the world's cold charity, 
Where ne'er was spoke a Scottish word, 
And ne'er the name of Douglas heard, 
An outcast pilgrim will she rove, 
Than wed the man she cannot love. 

XIV. 

"Thou shakest, good friend, thy tresses 

gray,— 
That pleading look, what can it say 



But what I own?— I grant him brave, 
But wild as Bracklinn's thundering wave ;' 7 
And generous— save vindictive mood, 
Or jealous transport, chafe his blood; 
I grant him true to friendly band, 
As his claymore js to his hand ; 
But O ! that very blade of steel 
More mercy for a foe would feel : 
I grant him liberal, to fling 
Among his clan the wealth they bring, 
When back by lake and glen they wind, 
And in the Lowland leave behind, 
Where once some pleasant hamlet stood, 
A mass of ashes slaked with blood. 
The hand that for my father fought, 
I honour, as his daughter ought ; 
But can I clasp it reeking red 
From peasants slaughter'd in their shed? 
No ! wildly while his virtues gleam, 
They make his passions darker seem, 
And flash along his spirit high, 
Like lightning o'er the midnight sky. 
While yet a child,— and children know, 
Instinctive taught, the friend and foe, — 
I shudder'd at his brow of gloom, 
His shadowy plaid, and sable plume ; 
A maiden grown, I ill could bear 
His haughty mien and lordly air : 
But, i£ thou join'st a suitor's claim, 
In serious mood, to Roderick's name, 
I thrill with anguish ! or, if e'er 
A Douglas knew the word, with fear. 
To change such odious theme were best, — 
What think'st thou of our stranger 
guest?" — 

XV. 
"What think I of him ?— woe the while 
That, brought such wanderer to our 

isle! 
Thy father's battle-brand, of yore 
For Tine-man forged by fairy lore, 18 
What time he leagued, no longer foes, 
His border spears with Hotspur's bows, 
Did, self-unscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe. 1 ? 
If courtly spy hath harbour'd here, 
What may we for the Douglas fear ? 
What for this island, deem'd of old 
Clan-Alpine's last and surest hold ? 
If neither spy nor foe, I pray, 
What yet may jealous Roderick say ? 
— Nay, wave not thy disdainful head, 
Bethink thee of the discord dread 
That kindled, when at Beltane game 
Thou ledst the dance with Malcolm 
Graeme ; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



121 



Still, though thy sire the peace renew'd, 
Smoulders in Roderick's breast the feud ; 
Beware ! — But hark, what sounds are 

these ? 
My dull ears catch no faltering breeze, 
No weeping birch nor aspens wake, 
Nor breath is dimpling in the lake, 
Still is the carina's* hoary beard, 
Yet, by my minstrel faith, I heard — 
And hark again ! some pipe of war 
Sends the bold pibroch from afar." 

XVI. 

Far up the lengthen'd lake were spied 
Four darkening specks upon the tide, 
That, slow enlarging on the view, 
Four mann'd and masted barges grew, 
.And, bearing downwards from Glengyle, 
Steer'd full upon the lonely isle ; 
The point of Brianchoil they pass'd, 
And, to the windward as they cast, 
Against the sun they gave to shine 
The bold Sir Roderick's banner'd Pine. 
Nearer and nearer as they bear, 
Spear, pikes, and axes flash in air. 
Now might you see the tartans brave, 
And plaids and plumage dance and wave : 
Now see the bonnets sink and rise, 
As his tough oar the rower plies ; 
See, flashing at each sturdy stroke, 
The wave ascending into smoke ; 
See the proud pipers on the bow, 
And mark the gaudy streamers flow 
From their loud chantersf down, and 

sweep 
The furrow'd bosom of the deep, 
As, rushing through the lake amain, 
They plied the ancient Highland strain. 



Ever, as on they bore, more loud 
And louder rung the pibroch proud. 
At first the sound, by distance tame, 
Mellow'd along the waters came, 
And, lingering long by cape and bay, 
Wail'd every harsher note away ; 
Then bursting bolder on the ear, 
The clan's shrill Gathering they could hear ; 
Those thrilling sounds, that call the might 
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight. 20 
Thick beat the rapid notes, as when 
The mustering hundreds shake the glen, 
And, hurrying at the signal dread, 
The batter'd earth returns their tread. 



* Cotton grass. 
t The pipe of the bagpipe. 



Then prelude light, of livelier tone, 
Express'd their merry marching on, 
Ere peal of closing battle rose, 
With mingled outcry, shrieks, and blows; 
And mimic din of stroke and ward, 
As broadsword upon target jarr'd ; 
And groaning pause, ere yet again, 
Condensed, the battle yell'd amain ; 
The rapid charge, the rallying shout, 
Retreat borne headlong into rout, 
And bursts of triumph, to declare 
Clan-Alpine's conquest — all were there. 
Nor ended thus the strain ; but slow, 
Sunk in a moan prolong'd and low, 
And changed the conquering clarion swell, 
For wild lament o'er those that fell. 



The war-pipes ceased ; but lake and hill 
Were busy with their echoes still ; 
And, when they slept, a vocal strain 
Bade their hoarse chorus wake again, 
While loud a hundred clansmen raise 
Their voices in their Chieftain's praise. 
Each boatman, bending to his oar, 
With measured sweep the burden bore, 
In such wild cadence, as the breeze 
Makes through December's leafless trees. 
The chorus first could Allan know, 
" Roderick Vich Alpine, ho ! iro ! " 
And near, and nearer as they row'd, 
Distinct the martial ditty flow'd. 

XIX. 

BOAT SONG. 

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances ! 
Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green 
Pine! 
Long may the tree, in his banner that 
glances, 
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our 
line ! 

Heaven send it happy dew, 
Earth lend it sap anew, 
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, 
While every Highland glen 
Sends our shout back agen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! 
ieroe!" 21 

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the 
fountain, 
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade ; 
When the whirlwind has stripp'd e\ery 
leaf on the mountain, 
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her 
shade. 



\22 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Moor'd in the rifted rock, 

Proof to the tempest's shock, 
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow ; 

Menteith and Breadalbane, then, 

Echo his praise agen, 
' ' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! ' ' 

xx. 

Proudly our pibroch* has thrill'd in Glen 
Fruin, 
And Bannochar's groans to our slogan f 
replied ; 
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smok- 
ing in ruin, 
And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead 
on her side. 

Widow and Saxon maid 
Long shall lament our raid, 
Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with 
woe; 

Lennox and Leven-glen 
Shake when they hear agen, 
' ' Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe ! " 

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the 
Highlands ! 
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green 
Pine! 
O! that the rose-bud that graces yon 
islands, 
Were wreathed in a garland around him 
to twine ! 
O that some seedling gem, 
Worthy such noble stem, 
Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow 
might grow ! 
Loud should Clan-Alpine then 
Ring from the deepmost glen, 
" Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho ! ieroe !" 

XXI. 

With all her joyful female band, 
Had Lady Margaret sought the strand, 
Loose on the breeze their tresses flew, 
And high their snowy arms they threw, 
As echoing back with shrill acclaim, 
And chorus wild, the Chieftain's name ; 
While, prompt to please, with mother's art, 
The darling passion of his heart, 
The Dame call'd Ellen to the strand, 
To greet her kinsman ere he land : 
"Come, loiterer, come! a Douglas thou, 
And shun to wreathe a victor's brow?" — 
Reluctantly and slow, the maid 
The unwelcome summoning obey'd, 

* Bagpipe air belonging to a clan, 
t Siogau, a war-cry 



And, when a distant bugle rung, 

In the mid-path aside she sprung: — 

" List, Allan-Bane! From mainland cast- 

I hear my father's signal blast. 

Be ours," she cried, " the skiff to guide, 

And waft him from the mountain side." 

Then, like a sunbeam, swift and bright, 

She darted to her shallop light, 

And, eagerly while Roderick scann'd, 

For her dear form, his mother's band, 

The islet far behind her lay, 

And she had landed in the bay. 

XXII. 

Some feelings are to mortals given, 

With less of earth in them than heaven: 

And if there be a human tear 

From passion's dross refined and clear, 

A tear so limpid and so meek, 

It would not stain an angel's cheek, 

'Tis that which pious fathers shed 

Upon a duteous daughter's head ! 

And as the Douglas to his breast 

His darling Ellen closely press'd, 

Such holy drops her tresses steep'd, 

Though 'twas a hero's eye that weep'd, 

Nor while on Ellen's faltering tongue 

Her filial welcomes crowded hung, 

Mark'd she, that fear (affection's proof) 

Still held a graceful youth aloof ; 

No ! not till Douglas named his name, 

Although the youth was Malcolm Graeme , 

XXIII. 

Allan, with wistful look the while, 

Mark'd Roderick landing on the isle ; 

His master piteously he eyed, 

Then gazed upon the Chieftain's pride. 

Then dash'd, with hasty hand, away 

From his dimm'd eye the gathering spray ; 

And Douglas, as his hand he laid 

On Malcolm's shoulder, kindly said, 

' ' Canst thou, young friend, no meaning 

spy 
In my poor follower's glistening eye? 
I'll tell thee : — he recalls the day, 
When in my praise he led the lay 
O'er the arch'd gate of Bothwell proud, 
While many a minstrel ansvver'd loud, 
When Percy's Norman pennon, won 
In bloody field, before me shone, 
And twice ten knights, the least a name 
As mighty as yon Chief may claim, 
Gracing my pomp, behind me came. 
Yet trust me, Malcolm, not so proud 
Was I of all that marshail'd crowd, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



m 



Though the waned crescent own'd my 

might, 
And in my train troop'd lord and knight, 
Though Blantyre hymn'd her holiest lays, 
And Both well's bards flung back my praise, 
As when this old man's silent tear, 
And this poor maid's affection dear, 
A welcome give more kind and true, 
Than aught my better fortunes knew. 
Forgive, my friend, a father's boast, 
O ! it out-beggars all I lost ! " 

XXIV. 

Delightful praise !— Like summer rose, 
That brighter in the dew-drop glows, 
The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd, 
For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard. 
The flush of shame-faced joy to hide, 
The hounds, the hawk, her cares divide ; 
The loved caresses of the maid 
The dogs with crouch and whimper paid ; 
And, at her whistle, on her hand 
The falcon took her favourite stand, 
I Closed his dark wing, relax' d his eye, 
i Nor, though unhooded, sought to fly. 
And, trust, while in such guise she stood, 
Like fabled Goddess of the wood, 
That if a father's partial thought 
'• O'erweigh'd her worth and beauty aught, 
I Well might the lover's judgment fail 

To balance with a juster scale ; 
! For with each secret glance he stole, 
The fond enthusiast sent his soul. 

xxv. 
Of stature tall, and slender frame, 
j But firmly knit, was Malcolm Graeme. 
The belted plaid and tartan hose 
Did ne'er more graceful limbs disclose ; 
His flaxen hair of sunny hue, 
Curl'd closely round his bonnet blue. 
Train'd to the chase, his eagle eye 
The ptarmigan in snow could spy : 
Each pass, by mountain, lake, and heath, 
He knew, through Lennox and Menteith : 
Vain was the bound of dark-brown doe, 
When Malcolm bent his sounding bow, 
And scarce that doe, though wing'd with 

fear, 
Outstripp'd in speed the mountaineer : 
Right up Ben-Lomond could he press, 
And not a sob his toil confess. 
His form accorded with a mind 
Lively and ardent, frank and kind ; 
A blither heart, till Ellen came, 
Did never love nor sorrow tame ; 
It danced as lightsome in his breast, 



As play'd the feather on his crest. 
Yet friends who nearest knew the youth, 
His scorn of wrong, his zeal for truth, 
And bards, who saw his features bold, 
When kindled by the tales of old, # 
Said, were that youth to manhood grown, 
Not long should Roderick Dhu's renown 
Be foremost voiced by mountain fame, 
But quail to that of Malcolm Graeme. 

XXVI. 

Now back they wend their watery way, 
And, " O my sire !" did Ellen say, 
" Why urge thy chase so far astray? 
And why so late return'd? And why—" 
The rest was in her speaking eye. 
" My child, the chase I follow far, 
'Tis mimicry of noble war; 
And with that gallant pastime reft, 
Were all of Douglas I have left. 
I met young Malcolm as I stray'd 
Far eastward, in Glenfinlas' shade, 
Nor stray'd I safe : for, all around, 
Hunters and horsemen scour'd the ground. 
This youth, though still a royal ward, 
Risk'd life and land to be my guard, 
And through the passes of the wood, 
Guided my steps, not unpursued ; 
And Roderick shall his welcome make, 
Despite old spleen, for Douglas' sake. 
Then must he seek Strath-Endrick glen, 
Nor peril aught for me agen." 

XXVII. 

Sir Roderick, who to meet them came, 
Sedden'd at sight of Malcolm Graeme, 
Yet, not in action, word, or eye, 
Fail'd aught in hospitality. 
In talk and sport they wiled away 
The morning of that summer day ; 
But at high noon a courier light 
Held secret parley with the knight, 
Whose moody aspect soon declared, 
That evil were the news he heard. 
Deep thought seem'd toiling in his head; 
Yet was the evening banquet made, 
Ere he assembled round the flame, 
His mother, Douglas, and the Graeme, 
And Ellen, too ; then cast around 
His eyes, then fix'd them on the ground, 
As studying phrase that might avail 
Best to convey unpleasant tale. 
Long with his dagger's hilt he play'd, 
Then raised his haughty brow and said : — 

XXVIII. 

' ' Short be my speech ; — nor time affords, 
Nor my plain temper, glozing words. 



124 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Kinsman and father, — if such name 
Douglas vouchsafe to Roderick's claim ; 
Mine honour'd mother ; — Ellen— why, 
My cousin, turn away thine eye? — 
And Graeme ; in whom I hope to know 
Full soon a noble friend or foe, 
When age shall give thee thy command, 
And leading in thy native land, — 
List all! — The King's vindictive pride 
Boasts to have tamed the Border-side, 
Where chiefs, with hound and hawk who 

came 
To share their monarch's sylvan game, 
Themselves in bloody toils were snared ; 
And when the banquet they prepared, 
And wide their loyal portals flung, 
O'er their own gateway struggling hung. 
Loud cries their blood from Meggat's mead, 
From Yarrow braes, and banks of Tweed, 
Where the lone streams of Ettrick glide, 
And from the silver Teviot's side ; 
The dales, where martial clans did ride, 
Are now one sheep-walk, waste and wide. 
This tyrant of the Scottish throne, 
So faithless and so ruthless known, 
Now hither comes ; his end the same, 
The same pretext of sylvan game. 
What grace for Highland Chiefs, judge ye 
By fate of Border chivalry. 
Yet more ; amid Glenfinlas green, 
Douglas, thy stately form was seen. 
This by espial sure I know ; « 

Your counsel in the streight I show." 

XXIX. 

Ellen and Margaret fearfully 
Sought comfort in each other's eye, 
Then turn'd their ghastly look, each one, 
This to her sire — that to her son. 
The hasty colour went and came 
In the bold cheek of Malcolm Graeme ; 
But from his glance it well appear'd, 
'Twas but for Ellen that he fear'd ; 
While, sorrowful, but undismay'd, 
The Douglas thus his counsel said : — 
" Brave Roderick, though the tempest roar, 
It may but thunder and pass o'er; 
Nor will I here remain an hour, 
To draw the lightning on thy bower ; 
For well thou know'st, at this gray head 
The royal bolt were fiercest sped. 
For thee, who, at thy King's command, 
Canst aid him with a gallant band, 
Submission, homage, humbled pride, 
Shall turn the Monarch's wrath aside. 
Poor remnants of the Bleeding Heart, 
Ellen and I will seek, apart, 



The refuge of some forest cell, 
There, like the hunted quarry, dwell, 
Till on the mountain and the moor, 
The stern pursuit be pass'd and o'er." 

XXX. 

" No, by mine honour," Roderick said, 
" So help me, heaven, and my good blade ! 
No, never ! Blasted be yon Pine, 
My fathers' ancient crest and mine, 
If from its shade in danger part 
The lineage of the Bleeding Heart ! 
Hear my blunt speech : Grant me this maid 
To wife, thy counsel to mine aid ; 
To Douglas, leagued with Roderick Dhu, 
Will friends and allies flock enow ; 
Like cause of doubt, distrust, and grief, 
Will bind to us each Western Chief. 
When the loud pipes my bridal tell, 
The Links of Forth shall hear the knell, 
The guards shall start in Stirling's porch ; 
And, when I light the nuptial torch, 
A thousand villages in flames, 
Shall scare the slumbers of King James ! 
— Nay, Ellen, blench not thus away, 
And, mother, cease these signs, I pray ; 
I meant not all my heart might say. — 
Small need of inroad, or of fight, 
When the sage Douglas may unite 
Each mountain clan in friendly band, 
To guard the passes of their land, 
Till the foil'd king, from pathless glen, 
Shall bootless turn him home agen." 

XXXI. 

There are who have, at midnight hour, 
In slumber scaled a dizzy tower, 
And, on the verge that beetled o'er 
The ocean-tide's incessant roar, 
Dream'd calmly out their dangerous dream, 
Till waken'd by the morning beam ; 
When, dazzled by the eastern glow, 
Such startler cast his glance below, 
And saw unmeasured depth around, 
And heard unintermitted sound, 
And thought the battled fence so frail, 
It waved like cobweb in the gale ; 
Amid his senses' giddy wheel, 
Did he not desperate impulse feel, 
Headlong to plunge himself below, 
And meet the worst his fears foreshow ?— 
Thus, Ellen, dizzy and astound, 
As sudden ruin yawn'd around, 
By crossing terrors wildly toss'd, 
Still for the Douglas fearing most, 
Could scarce the desperate thought with- 
stand 
To buy his safety with her hand. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



"5 



XXXII. 

Such purpose dread could Malcolm spy 
In Ellen's quivering lip and eye, 
And eager rose to speak — but ere 
His tongue could hurry foith his fear, 
Had Douglas mark'd the hectic strife, 
Where death seem'd combating with life ; 
For to her cheek, in feverish flood, 
One instant rush'd the throbbing blood, 
Then ebbing back, with sudden sway, 
Left its domain as wan as clay. 
" Roderick, enough ! enough ! " he cried, 
" My daughter cannot be thy bride ; 
• Not that the blush to wooer dear, 
Nor paleness that of maiden fear. 
It may not be — forgive her, Chief, 
Nor hazard aught for our relief. 
Against his sovereign, Douglas ne'er 
Will level a rebellious spear. 
Twas I that taught his youthful hand 
To rein a steed and wield a brand ; 
I see him yet, the princely boy ! 
Not Ellen more my pride and joy ; 
I love him still, despite my wrongs, 
By hasty wrath, and slanderous tongues. 
O seek the grace you well may find, 
Without a cause to mine combined." 

XXXIII. 

Twice through the hall the Chieftain strode ; 
The waving of his tartans broad, 
And darken'd brow, where wounded pride 
With ire and disappointment vied, 
Seem'd, by the torch's gloomy light, 
Like the ill Demon of the night, 
Stooping his pinions' shadowy sway 
Upon the nighted pilgrim's way : 
But, unrequited Love ! thy dart 
Plunged deepest its envenom'd smart, 
And Roderick, with thine anguish stung, 
At length the hand of Douglas wrung, 
While eyes, that mock'd at tears before, 
With bitter drops were running o'er. 
The death-pangs of long-cherish'd hope 
Scarce in that ample breast had scope, 
But, struggling with his spirit proud, 
Convulsive heaved its chequer'd shroud, 
While every sob— so mute were all- 
Was heard distinctly through the hall. 
The son's despair, the mother's look, 
111 might the gentle Ellen brook ; 
She rose, and to her side there came, 
To aid her parting steps, the Graeme. 

XXXIV. 

Then Roderick from the Douglas broke — 
As Hashes flame through sable smoke, 1 



Kindling its wreaths, long, dark, and low, 
To one broad blaze of ruddy glow, 
So the deep anguish of despair 
Burst, in fierce jealousy, to air. 
With stalwart grasp his hand he laid 
On Malcolm's breast and belted plaid : 
" Back, beardless boy ! " he sternly said, 
" Back, minion ! hold'st thou thus at naught 
The lesson I so lately taught? 
This roof, the Douglas, and that maid, 
Thank thou for punishment delay'd," 
Eager as greyhound on his game, 
Fiercely with Roderick grappled Graeme. 
" Perish my name, if aught afford 
Its Chieftain safety save his sword ! " 
Thus as they strove, their desperate hand 
Griped to the dagger or the brand, 
And death had been — but Douglas rose, 
And thrust between the struggling foes 
His giant strength : — "Chieftains, forego ! 
I hold the first who strikes, my foe. — 
Madmen, forbear your frantic jar ! 
What ! is the Douglas fall'n so far, 
His daughter's hand is doom'd the spoil 
Of such dishonourable broil ! " 
Sullen and slowly they unclasp, 
As struck with shame, their desperate 

grasp, 
And each upon his rival glared, 
With foot advanced, and blade half bared. 

XXXV. 

Ere yet the brands aloft were flung, 
Margaret on Roderick's mantle hung, 
And Malcolm heard his Ellen's scream, 
As falter' d through terrific dream. 
Then Roderick plunged in sheath his sword, 
And veil'd his wrath in scornful word. 
' ' Rest safe till morning ; pity 'twere 
Such cheek should feel the midnight air ! 
Then mayest thou to James Stuart tell, 
Roderick will keep the lake and fell, 
Nor lackey, with his freeborn clan, 
The pageant pomp of earthly man. 
More would he of Clan-Alpine know, 
Thou canst our strength and passes show, — 
Malise, what ho!" — his henchman came;* 
" Give our safe-conduct to the Graeme." 
Young Malcolm answer'd, calm and bold, 
" Fear nothing for thy favourite hold; 
The spot an angel deign'd to grace 
Is bless'd, though robbers haunt the place. 



* A henchman was the confidential attendant 
or gilly of a chief. His standing behind his 
lord at festivals originated the name of haunch- 
man or henchman. 



126 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Thy churlish courtesy for those 
Reserve, who fear to be thy foes. 
As safe to me the mountain way 
At midnight as in blaze of day, 
Though with his boldest at his back 
Even Roderick Dhu beset the track. — 
Brave Douglas, — lovely Ellen, — nay, 
Nought here of parting will I say. 
Earth does not hold a lonesome glen, 
So secret, but we meet agen.— 
Chieftain ! we too shall find an hour." 
He said, and left the sylvan bower. 

XXXVI. 

Old Allan follow'd to the strand, 
(Such was the Douglas's command,) 
And anxious told, how, on the morn, 
The stern Sir Roderick deep had sworn, 
The Fiery Cross should circle o'er 
Dale, glen, and valley, down, and moor. 
Much were the peril to the Graeme, 
From those who to the signal came ; 
Far up the lake 'twere safest land, 
Himself would row him to the strand. 
He gave his counsel to the wind, 
While Malcolm did, unheeding, bind, 
Round dirk and pouch and broadsword 

roll'd, 
His ample plaid in tighten' d fold, 
And stripp'd his limbs to such array, 
As best might suit the watery way, — 

XXXVII. 

Then spoke abrupt : ' ' Farewell to thee, 
Pattern of old fidelity ! " 
The Minstrel's hand he kindly press'd, — | 
" O ! could I point a place of rest ! 
My sovereign holds in ward my land, 
My uncle leads my vassal band ; 
To tame his foes, his friends to aid, 
Poor Malcolm has but heart and blade. 
Yet, if there be one faithful Graeme, 
Who loves the Chieftain of his name, 
Not long shall honour'd Douglas dwell, 
Like hunted stag in mountain cell ; 
Nor, ere yon pride-swoll'n robber dare— 
I may not give the rest to air! 
Tell Roderick Dhu, 1 owed him nought, 
Not the poor service of a boat, 
To waft me to yon mountain-side." 
Then plunged he in the flashing tide. 
Bold o'er the flood his head he bore, 
And stoutly steer'd him from the shore ; 
And Allan strain'd his anxious eye, 
Far 'mid the lake his form to spy. 
Darkening across each puny wave 
To which the moon her silver gave, 



Fast as the cormorant could skim, 
The swimmer plied each active limb ; 
Then landing in the moonlight dell, 
Loud shouted of his weal to tell. 
The Minstrel heard the far halloo, 
And joyful from the shore withdrew. 



CANTO THIRD. 

THE GATHERING. 

Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race 
of yore, 
Who danced our infancy upon their 
knee, 
And told our marvelling boyhood legends 
store, 
Of their strange ventures happ'd by land 
or sea, 
How are they blotted from the things 
that be ! 
How few, all weak, and wither'd of then- 
force, 
Wait on the verge of dark eternity, 

Like stranded wrecks, the tide returning 
hoarse, 
To sweep them from our sight! Time 
rolls his ceaseless course. 

Yet live there still who can remember well, 
How, when a mountain chief his bugle 

blew, 
Both field and forest, dingle, cliff, and dell, 

And solitary heath, the signal knew ; 
And fast the faithful clan around him drew, 
What time the warning note was keenly 

wound, 
What time aloft their kindred banner flew, 
While clamorous war-pipes yell'd the 

gathering sound, 
And while the Fiery Cross glanced like a 

meteor round. 22 
II. 
The Summer dawn's reflected hue 
To purple changed Loch Katrine blue ; 
Mildly and soft the western breeze 
Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees, 
And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, 
Trembled but dimpled not for joy; 
The mountain-shadows on her breast 
Were neither broken nor at rest ; 
In bright uncertainty they lie, 
Like future joys to Fancy's eye. 
The water-lily to the light 
Her chalice rear'd of silver bright ; 



" 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



127 



The doe awoke, and to the lawn, 

Begemm'd with dew-drops, led her fawn ; 

The gray mist left the mountain-side, 

The torrent show'd its glistening pride ; 

Invisible in flecked sky, 

The lark sent down her revelry ; 

The blackbird and the speckled thrush 

Good-morrow gave from brake and bush ; 

In answer coo'd the cushat dove 

Her notes of peace, and rest, and love. 



No thought of peace, no thought of rest, 
Assuaged the storm in Roderick's breast. 
With sheathed broadsword in his hand, 
Abrupt he paced the islet strand, 
And eyed the rising sun, and laid 
His hand on his impatient blade. 
Beneath a rock, his vassals' care 
Was prompt the ritual to prepare, 
With deep and deathful meaning fraught ; 
For such Antiquity had taught 
Was preface meet, ere yet abroad 
The Cross of Fire should take its road. 
The shrinking band stood oft aghast 
At the impatient glance he cast ; — 
Such glance the mountain eagle threw, 
As from the cliffs of Benvenue, 
She spread her dark sails on the wind, 
And, high in middle heaven, reclined, 
With her broad shadow on the lake, 
Silenced the warblers of the brake. 



A heap of wither' d boughs was piled, 
Of juniper and rowan wild, 
Mingled with shivers from the oak, 
Rent by the lightning's recent stroke. 
Brian, the Hermit, by it stood, 
Barefooted, in his frock and hood. 
His grisled beard and matted hair 
Obscured a visage of despair ; 
His naked arms and legs, seam'd o'er, 
The scars of frantic penance bore. 
That monk, of savage form and face, 2 3 
The impending danger of his race 
Had drawn from deepest solitude, 
Far in Benharrow's bosom rude. 
Not his the mien of Christian priest, 
But Druid's, from the grave released, 
Whose harden'd heart and eye might brook 
On human sacrifice to look ; 
And much, 'twas said, of heathen lore 
Mix'd in the charms he mutter'd o'er. 
The hallow'd creed gave only worse 
And deadlier emphasis of curse ; 



No peasant sought that Hermit's prayer, 
His cave the pilgrim shunn'd with care, 
The eager huntsman knew his bound, 
And in mid chase call'd off his hound ; 
Or if, in lonely glen or strath, 
The desert-dweller met his path, 
He pray'd, and sign'd the cro<;s between, 
While terror took devotion's mien. 

v. 
Of Brian's birth strange tales were told : 2 * 
His mother watch'd a midnight fold, 
Built deep within a dreary glen, 
Where scatter'd lay the bones of men, 
In some forgotten battle slain, 
And bleach'd by drifting wind and rain. 
It might have tamed a warrior's heart, 
To view such mockery of his art ! 
The knot-grass fetter'd there the hand, 
Which once could burst an iron band ; 
Beneath the broad and ample bone, 
That buckler'd heart to fear unknown, 
A feeble and a timorous guest, 
The field-fare framed her lowly nest, 
There the slow blind-worm left his slime, 
On the fleet limbs that mock'd at time ; 
And there, too, lay the leader's skull, 
Still wreathed with chaplet, flush'd and full, 
For heath-bell with her purple bloom 
Supplied the bonnet and the plume. 
All night, in this sad glen, the maid 
Sate, shrouded in her mantle's shade : 
— She said, no shepherd sought her side, 
No hunter's hand her snood untied, 
Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 
The virgin snood did Alice wear;*S 
Gone was her maiden glee and sport, 
Her maiden girdle all too short, 
Nor sought she, from that fatal night, 
Or holy church or blessed rite, 
But lock'd her secret in her breast, 
And died in travail, unconfess'd. 

VI. 

Alone, among his young compeers, 
Was Brian from his infant years ; 
A moody and heart-broken boy, 
Estranged from sympathy and joy, 
Bearing each taunt which careless tongue 
On his mysterious lineage flung. 
Whole nights he spent by moonlight pale 
To wood and stream his hap to wail, 
Till, frantic, he as truth received 
What of his birth the crowd believed, 
And sought, in mist and meteor fire, 
To meet and know his Phantom Sire ! 
In vain, to soothe his wayward fate, 
The cloister oped her pitying gate ; 



I2S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In vain, the learning of the age 
Unclasp'd the sable-letter'd page; 
Even in its treasures he could find 
Food for the fever of his mind. 
Eager he read whatever tells 
Of magic, cabala, and spells, 
And every dark pursuit allied 
To curious and presumptuous pride ; 
Till with fired brain and nerves o'erstrung, 
And heart with mystic horrors wrung, 
Desperate he sought Benharrow's den, 
And hid him from the haunts of men. 

VII. 

The desert gave him visions wild, 

Such as might suit the spectre's child. 

Where with black cliffs the torrents toil, 

He watch'd the wheeling eddies boil, 

Till, from their foam, his dazzled eyes 

Beheld the River Demon rise ; 

The mountain mist took form and limb, 

Of noontide hag, or goblin grim ; 

The midnight wind came wild and dread, 

Swell'd with the voices of the dead ; 

Far on the future battle-heath 

His eye beheld the ranks of death : 

Thus the lone Seer, from mankind hurl'd, 

Shaped forth a disembodied world. 

One lingering sympathy of mind 

Still bound him to the mortal kind ; 

The only parent he could claim 

Of ancient Alpine's lineage came. 

Late had he heard, in prophet's dream, 

The fatal Ben-Shie's boding scream ; 26 

Sounds, too, had come in midnight blast, 

Of charging steeds, careering fast 

Along Benharrow's shingly side, 

Where mortal horsemen ne'er might ride ; ^ 

The thunderbolt had split the pine, — 

All augur'd ill to Alpine's line. 

He girt his loins, and came to show 

The signals of impending woe, 

And now stood prompt to bless or ban, 

As bade the Chieftain of his clan. 

VIII. 

'Twas all prepared ; — and from the rock, 
A goat, the patriarch of the flock, 
Before the kindling pile was laid, 
And pierced by Roderick's ready blade. 
Patient the sickening victim eyed 
The life-blood ebb in crimson tide, 
Down his clogg'd beard and shaggy limb, 
Till darkness glazed his eyeballs dim. 
The grisly priest, with murmuring prayer, 
A slender crosslet form'd with care, 
A cubit's length in measure due ; 
The shaft and limbs were rods of yew, 



Whose parents in Inch-Cailliach wave 
Their shadows o'er Clan-Alpine's grave, 
And, answering Lomond's breezes deep, 
Soothe many a chieftain's endless sleep. 
The Cross, thus form'd, he held on high, 
With wasted hand, and haggard eye, 
And strange and mingled feelings woke, 
While his anathema he spoke. 

IX. 

' ' Woe to the clansman, who shall view 
This symbol of sepulchral yew, 
Forgetful that its branches grew 
Where weep the heavens their holiest dew, 

On Alpine's dwelling low ! 
Deserter of his Chieftain's trust, 
He ne'er shall mingle with their dust, 
But, from his sires and kindred thrust. 
Each clansman's execration just 

Shall doom him wrath and woe ! " 
He paused ; — the word the vassals took, 
With forward step and fiery look, 
On high their naked brands they shook, 
Their clattering targets wildly strook ; 

And first in murmur low, 
Then, like the billow in his course. 
That far to seaward finds his source, 
And flings to shore his muster'd force, 
Burst, with loud roar, their answer hoarse, 

" Woe to the traitor, woe ! " 
Ben-an's gray scalp the accents knew, 
The joyous wolf from covert drew, 
The exulting eagle scream' d afar, — 
They knew the voice of Alpine's war. 

x. 

The shout was hush'd on lake and fell, 
The monk resumed his mutter'd spell : 
Dismal and low its accents came, 
The while he scathed the Cross with flame ; 
And the few words that reach'd the air, 
Although the holiest name was there, 
Had more of blasphemy than prayer. 
But when he shook above the crowd 
Its kindled points, he spoke aloud : — 
" Woe to the wretch who fails to rear 
At this dread sign the ready spear ! 
For, as the flames this symbol sear, 
His home, the refuge of his fear, 

A kindred fate shall know ; 
Far o'er its roof the volumed flame 
Clan-Alpine's vengeance shall proclaim, 
While maids and matrons on his name 
Shall call down wretchedness and shame, 

And infamy and woe." 
Then rose the cry of females, shrill 
As goss-hawk's whistle on the hill, 



" 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



129 



Denouncing misery and ill, 

Mingled with childhood's babbling trill 

Of curses stammer'd slow ; 
Answering, with imprecation dread, 
*' Sunk be his home in embers red ! 
And cursed be the meanest shed 
That e'er shall hide the houseless head, 

We doom to want and woe ! " 
A sharp and shrieking echo gave, 
Coir-Uriskin, thy goblin cave ! 
And the gray pass where birches wave, 

On Beala-nam-bo. 
xr. 
Then deeper paused the priest anew, 
And hard his labouring breath he drew, 
While, with set teeth and clenched hand, 
And eyes that glow'd like fiery brand, 
He meditated curse more dread, 
And deadlier, on the clansman's head, 
Who, summon'd to his Chieftain's aid, 
The signal saw and disobey' d. 
The crosslet's points of sparkling wood, 
He quench'd among the bubbling blood, 
And, as again the sign he rear'd, 
Hollow and hoarse his voice was heard : 
"When flits this Cross from man to man, 
Vich-Alpine's summons to his clan, 
Burst be the ear that fails to heed ! 
Palsied the foot that shuns to speed ! 
May ravens tear the careless eyes, 
Wolves make the coward heart their prize ! 
As sinks that blood-stream in the earth, 
So may his heart' s-blood drench his hearth ! 
As dies in hissing gore the spark, 
Quench thou his light, Destruction dark, 
And be the grace to him denied, 
Bought by this sign to all beside !" 
He ceased ; no echo gave agen 
The murmur of the deep Amen. 

XII. 

Then Roderick, with impatient look, 
From Brian's hand the symbol took : 
"Speed, Malise, speed !" he said, and gave 
The crosslet to his henchman brave. 
"The muster-place be Lanrick mead — 
Instant the time — speed, Malise, speed!" 
Like heath-bird when the hawks pursue, 
A barge across Loch Katrine flew ; 
High stood the henchman on the prow ; 
So rapidly the barge-men row, 
The bubbles, where they launch'd the boat, 
Were all unbroken and afloat, 
Dancing in foam and ripple still, 
When it had near'd the mainland hill ; 
And from the silver beach's side 
Still was the prow three fathom wide, 



r 



When lightly bounded to the land 
The messenger of blood and brand. 

XIII. 

Speed, Malise, speed ! the dun deer's hide 
On fleeter foot was never tied. 28 
Speed, Malise, speed ! such cause of haste 
Thine active sinews never braced. 
Bend 'gainst the steepy hill thy breast, 
Burst down like torrent from its crest ; 
With short and springing footstep pass 
The trembling bog and false morass ; 
Across the brook like roebuck bound, 
And thread the brake like questing hound ; 
The crag is high, the scaur is. deep, 
Yet shrink not from the desperate leap : 
Parch'd are thy burning lips and brow, 
Yet by the fountain pause not now ; 
Herald of battle, fate, and fear, 
Stretch onward in thy fleet career ! 
The wounded hind thou track'st not now, 
Pursuest not maid through greenwood 

bough, 
Nor pliest thou now thy flying pace, 
With rivals in the mountain race ; 
But danger, death, and warrior deed, 
Are in thy course — speed, Malise, speed ! 

XIV. 

Fast as the fatal symbol flies, 
In arms the huts and hamlets rise ; 
From winding glen, from upland brown, 
They pour'd each hardy tenant down. 
Nor slack'd the messenger his pace ; 
He show'd the sign, he named the place, 
And, pressing forward like the wind, 
Left clamour and surprise behind. 
The fisherman forsook the strand, 
The swarthy smith took dirk and brand ; 
With changed cheer, the mower blithe 
Left in the half-cut swathe the scythe ; 
The herds without a keeper stray'd, 
The plough was in mid-furrow staid, 
The falc'ner toss'd his hawk away, 
The hunter left the stag at bay ; 
Prompt at the signal of alarms, 
Each son of Alpine rush'd to arms ; 
So swept the tumult and affray 
Along the margin of Achray. 
Alas ! thou lovely lake ! that e'er 
Thy banks should echo sounds of fear ! 
The rocks, the bosky thickets, sleep 
So stilly on thy bosom deep, 
The lark's blithe carol, from the cloud, 
Seems for the scene too gaily loud. 

XV. 

Speed, Malise, speed ! the lake is past, 
Duncraggan's huts appear at last, 
9 



130 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And peep, like moss-grown rocks, half 

seen, 
Half hidden in the copse so green ; 
There may'st thou rest, thy labour done, 
Their Lord shall speed the signal on. — 
As stoops the hawk upon his prey, 
The henchman shot him down the way. 
— What woeful accents load the gale? 
The funeral yell, the female wail ! 
A gallant hunter's sport is o'er, 
A valiant warrior fights no more. 
Who, in the battle or the chase, 
At Roderick's side shall fill his place ! — 
Within the hall, where torches' ray 
Supplies the excluded beams of day, 
Lies Duncan on his lowly bier, 
And o'er him streams his widow's tear. 
His stripling son stands mournful by, 
His youngest weeps, but knows not why ; 
The village maids and matrons round 
The dismal coronach resound. 2 ? 

XVI. 
CORONACH. 

He is gone on the mountain, 

He is lost to the forest, 
Like a summer-dried fountain, 

When our need was the sorest. 
The font, reappearing, 

From the rain-drops shall borrow, 
But to us comes no cheering, 

To Duncan no morrow ! 
The hand of the reaper 

Takes the ear's that are hoary, 
But the voice of the weeper 

Wails manhood in glory. 
The autumn winds rushing 

Waft the leaves that are searest, 
But our flower was in flushing, 

When blighting was nearest. 

Fleet foot on the correi,* 

Sage counsel in cumber, 
Red hand in the foray, 

How sound is thy slumber ! 
Like the dew on the mountain, 

Like the foam on the river, 
Like the bubble on the fountain, 

Thou art gone, and for ever ! 

XVII. 

See Stumah.f who, the bier beside, 
His master's corpse with wonder eyed, 



* Correi, the hollow side of the hill where 
game usually lies. 

t The name of a dog. The word is Celtic 
for "faithful." 



Poor Stumah ! whom his least halloo 
Could send like lightning o'er the dew, 
Bristles his crest, and points his ears, 
As if some stranger step he hears. 
'Tis not a mourner's muffled tread, 
Who comes to sorrow o'er the dead, 
But headlong haste, or deadly fear, 
Urge the precipitate career. 
All stand aghast : — unheeding all, 
The henchman bursts into the hall ; 
Before the dead man's bier he stood ; 
Held forth the Cross besmear'd with blood ; 
"The muster-place is Lanrick mead ; 
Speed forth the signal ! clansmen, speed ! " 

XVIII. 

Angus, the heir of Duncan's line, 
Sprung forth and seized the fatal sign. 
In haste the stripling to his side 
His father's dirk and broadsword tied; 
But when he saw his mother's eye 
Watch him in speechless agony, 
Back to her open'd arms he flew, 
Press'd on her lips a fond adieu — 
"Alas!" she sobb'd, — "and yet, be gone, 
And speed thee forth, like Duncan's son ! " 
One look he cast upon the bier, 
Dash'd from his eye the gathering tear, 
Breathed deep to clear his labouring breast, 
And toss'd aloft his bonnet crest. 
Then, like the high-bred colt, when, freed, 
First he essays his fire and speed, 
He vanish'd, and o'er moor and moss 
Sped forward with the Fiery Cross. 
Suspended was the widow's tear, 
While yet his footsteps she could hear ; 
And when she mark'd the henchman's eye 
Wet with unwonted sympathy, 
" Kinsman," she said, " his race is run, 
That should have sped thine errand on ; 
The oak has fall'n, — the sapling bough 
Is all Duncraggan's shelter now. 
Yet trust I well, his duty done, 
The orphan's God will guard my son. — 
And you, in many a danger true, 
At Duncan's hest your blades that drew, 
To arms, and guard that orphan's head ! 
Let babes and women wail the dead." 
Then weapon-clang, and martial call, 
Resounded through the funeral hall, 
While from the walls the attendant band 
Snatch'd sword and targe, with hurried 

•hand; 
And short and flitting energy 
Glanced from the mourner's sunken eye, 
As if the sounds to warrior dear, 
Might rouse her Duncan from his bier. 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



131 



But faded soon that borrow'd force, 
Grief claim'd his right, and tears their course. 

XIX. 

Benledi saw the Cross of Fire, 
It glanced like lightning up Strath-Ire. 
O'er dale and hill the summons flew, 
Nor rest nor pause young Angus knew ; 
The tear that gather' d in his eye 
He left the mountain breeze to dry ; 
Until, where Teith's young waters roll, 
Betwixt him and a wooded knoll, 
That graced the sable strath with green, 
The chapel of St. Bride was seen. 
Swoln was the stream, remote the bridge, 
But Angus paused not on the edge ; 
Though the dark waves danced dizzily, 
Though reel'd his sympathetic eye, 
He dash'd amid the torrent's roar: 
His right hand high the crosslet bore, 
His left the pole-axe grasp'd, to guide 
And stay his footing in the tide. 
He stumbled twice— the foam splash'd'high, 
With hoarser swell the stream raced by ; 
And had he fall'n, — for ever there, 
Farewell Duncraggan's orphan heir ! 
But still, as if in parting life, 
Firmer he grasp'd the Cross of strife, 
Until the opposing bank he gain'd, 
And up the chapel pathway strain'd. 

xx. 
A blithesome rout, that morning tide, 
Had sought the chapel of St. Bride. 
Her troth Tombea's Mary gave 
To Norman, heir of Armandave, 
And, issuing from the Gothic arch, 
The bridal now resumed their march. 
In rude, but glad procession, came 
Bonneted sire and coif-clad dame ; 
And plaided youth, with jest and jeer, 
Which snooded maiden would not hear ; 
And children, that, unwitting why, 
Lent the gay shout their shrilly cry; 
And minstrels, that in measures vied 
Before the young and bonny bride, 
Whose downcast eye and cheek disclose 
The tear and blush of morning rose. 
With virgin step, and bashful hand, 
She held the 'kerchief's snowy band ; 
The gallant bridegroom by her side, 
Beheld his prize with victor's pride, 
And the glad mother in her ear 
Was closely whispering word of cheer. 

xxr. 
Who meets them at the churchyard gate ? 
The messenger of fear and fate ! 
Haste in his hurried accent lies, 



And grief is swimming in his eyes. 

All dripping from the recent flood, 

Panting and travel-soil'd he stood, 

The fatal sign of fire and sword 

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word : 

"The muster-place is Lanrick mead; 

Speed forth the signal ! Norman, speed !" 

And must he change so soon the hand, 

Just link'd to his by holy band, 

For the fell Cross of blood and brand ? 

And must the day, so blithe that rose, 

And promised rapture in the close, 

Before its setting hour, divide 

The bridegroom from the plighted bride ! 

O fatal doom ! — it must ! it must ! 

Clan-Alpine's cause, her Chieftain's trust, 

Her summons dread, brook no delay ; 

Stretch to the race — away ! away ! 

xxn. 
Yet slow he laid his plaid aside, 
And, lingering, eyed his lovely bride, 
Until he saw the starting tear 
Speak woe he might not stop to cheer ; 
Then, trusting not a second look, 
In haste he sped him up the brook, 
Nor backward glanced, till on the heath 
Where Lubnaig's lake supplies the Teith. 
— What in the racer's bosom stirr'd? 
The sickening pang of hope deferr'd, 
And memory, with a torturing train [ 
Of all his morning visions vain. 
Mingled with love's impatience, cam«5 
The manly thirst for martial fame ; 
The stormy joy of mountaineers, 
Ere yet they rush upon the spears ; 
And zeal for Clan and Chieftain burning, 
And hope, from well-fought field returning, 
With war's red honours on his crest, 
To clasp his Mary to his breast. 
Stung by such thoughts, o'er bank and brae, 
Like fire from flint he glanced away, 
While high resolve, and feeling strong, 
Burst into voluntary song. 

xxur. 

SONG. 

The heath this night must be my bed, 
The bracken * curtain for my head, 
My lullaby the warder's tread, 

Far, far from love and thee, Mary ; 
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid , 
My couch may be my bloody plaid, 
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid ! 

It will not waken me, Mary ! 



Fern. 



132 



scorrs poetical works. 



T may not, dare not, fancy now 

The grief that clouds thy lovely brow, 

I dare not think upon thy vow, 

And all it promised me, Mary. 
No fond regret must Norman know ; 
When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, 
His heart must be like bended bow, 

His foot like arrow free, Mary. 

A time will come with feeling fraught, 
For, if I fall in battle fought, 
Thy hapless lover's dying thought 

Shall be a thought on thee, Mary. 
And if return'd from conquer'd foes, 
How blithely will the evening close, 
How sweet the linnet sing repose, 

To my young bride and me, Maty ! 

XXIV. 
Not faster o'er thy heathery braes, 
Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze,3° 
Rushing, in conflagration strong, 
Thy deep ravines and dells along, 
Wrapping thy cliffs in purple glow, 
And reddening the dark lakes below ; 
Nor faster speeds it, nor so far, 
As o'er thy heaths the voice of war. 
The signal roused to martial coil 
The sullen margin of Loch Voil, 
Waked still Loch Doine, and to the source 
Alarm'd, Balvaig, thy swampy course ; 
Thence southward turn'd its rapid road 
Adown Strath-Gartney's valley broad, 
Till rose in arms each man might claim 
A portion in Clan-Alpine's name, 
From the gray sire, whose trembling hand 
Could hardly buckle on his brand, 
To the raw boy, whose shaft and bow 
Were yet scarce terror to the crow. 
Each valley, each sequester'd glen, 
Muster'd its little horde of men, 
That met as torrents from the height 
In Highland dales their streams unite, 
Still gathering, as they pour along, 
A voice more loud, a tide more strong, 
Till at the rendezvous they stood 
By hundreds prompt for blows and blood ; 
Each train'd to arms since life began, 
Owning no tie but to his clan, 
No oath, but by his chieftain's hand, 
No law, but Roderick Dhu's command. 



That summer morn had Roderick Dhu 
Survey'd the skirts of Benvenue, 
And sent his scouts o'er hill and heath, 
Vo view the frontiers of Menteith. 



All backward came with news of truce ; 
Still lay each martial Graeme and Bruce, 
In Rednoch courts no horsemen wait, 
No banner waved on Cardross gate, 
On Duchray's towers no beacon shone, 
Nor scared the herons from Loch Con ; 
All seem'd at peace. — Now, wot ye why 
The Chieftain, with such anxious eye, 
Ere to the muster he repair, 
This western frontier scann'd with care? — 
In Benvenue's most darksome cleft, 
A fair, though cruel, pledge was left ; 
For Douglas, to his promise true, 
That morning from the isle withdrew, 
And in a deep sequester'd dell 
Had sought a low and lonely cell. 
By many a bard, in Celtic tongue, 
Has Coir-nan-Uriskin been sung ; 3 1 
A softer name the Saxons gave, 
And call'd the grot the Goblin-cave. 

XXVI. 

It was a wild and strange retreat, 
As e'er was trod by outlaw's feet. 
The dell, upon the mountain's crest, 
Yawn'd like a gash on warrior's breast ; 
Its trench had staid full many a rock, 
Hurl'd by primeval earthquake shock 
From Benvenue's gray summit wild, 
And here, in random ruin piled, 
They frown' d incumbent o'er the spot, 
rvnd form'd the rugged sylvan grot. 
The oak and birch, with mingled shade, 
At noontide there a twilight made, 
Unless when short and sudden shone 
Some straggling beam on cliff or stone, 
With such a glimpse as prophet's eye 
Gains on thy depth, Futurity. 
No murmur waked the solemn still, 
Save tinkling of a fountain rill ; 
But when the wind chafed with the lake, 
A sullen sound would upward break, 
With dashing hollow voice, that spoke 
The incessant war of wave and rock. 
Suspended cliffs with hideous sway 
Seem'd nodding o'er the cavern gray. 
B'rom such a den the wolf had sprung, 
In such the wild-cat leaves her young ; 
Yet Douglas and his daughter fair 
Sought for a space their safety there. 
Gray Superstition's whisper dread 
Debarr'd the spot to vulgar tread : 
For there, she said, did fays resort, 
And satyrs * hold their sylvan court, 



* The Highlanders had a mythological satyr 
or urisk. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



133 



By moonlight tread their mystic maze, 
And blast the rash beholder's gaze. 

XXVII. 

Now eve, with western shadows long, 
Floated on Katrine bright and strong, 
When Roderick, with a chosen few, 
Repass'd the heights of Benvenue. 
Above the Goblin-cave they go, 
Through the wild pass of Beal-nam-bo : 
The prompt retainers speed before, 
To launch the shallop from the shore, 
For cross Loch Katrine lies his way 
To view the passes of Achray, 
And place his clansmen in array. 
Yet lags the chief in musing mind, 
Unwonted sight, his men behind. 
A single page, to bear his sword, 
Alone attended on his lord ; 
The rest their way through thickets break, 
And soon await him by the lake. 
It was a fair and gallant sight, 
To view them from the neighbouring height, 
By the low-levell'd sunbeams' light ! 
For strength and stature, from the clan 
Each warrior was a chosen man, 
As even afar might well be seen, 
By their proud step and martial mien. 
Their feathers dance, their tartans float, 
Their targets gleam, as by the boat 
A wild and war-like group they stand, 
That well became such mountain-strand. * 

XXVIII. 

Their Chief, with step reluctant, still 
Was lingering on the craggy hill, 
Hard by where turn'd apart the road 
To Douglas's obscure abode. 
It was but with that dawning morn, 
That Roderick Dhu had proudly sworn 
To drown his love in war's wild roar, 
Nor think of Ellen Douglas more ; 
But he who stems a stream with sand, 
And fetters flame with flaxen band, 
Has yet a harder task to prove — 
By firm resolve to conquer love ! 
Eve finds the Chief, like restless ghost, 
Still hovering near his treasure lost ; 
For though his haughty heart deny 
A parting meeting to his eye, 
Still fondly strains his anxious ear, 
The accents of her voice to hear, 
And inly did he curse the breeze 
That waked to sound the rustling trees. 
But hark ! what mingles in the strain? 
It is the harp of Allan-Bane, 
That wakes its measure slow and high, 
Attuned to sacred minstrelsy. 



What melting voice attends the strings? 
'Tis Ellen, or an angel, sings. 

XXIX. 

HYMN TO THE VIRGIN. 
Ave Maria ! maiden mild ! 

Listen to a maiden's prayer ! 
Thou canst hear though from the wild, 

Thou canst save amid despair. 
Safe may we sleep beneath thy care, 

Though banish'd, outcast, and reviled — 
Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, hear a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria! 
Ave Maria ! undefiled ! 

The flinty couch we now must share 
Shall seem with down of eider piled, 

If thy protection hover there. 
The murky cavern's heavy air 

Shall breathe of balm if thou hast smiled ; 
Then, Maiden ! hear a maiden's prayer ; 

Mother, list a suppliant child ! 

Ave Maria / 
Ave Maria ! stainless styled ! 

Foul demons of the earth and air, 
From this their wonted haunt exiled, 

ShalFflee before thy presence fair. . 
We bow us to our lot of care, 

Benealh thy guidance reconciled ; 
Hear for a maid a maiden's prayer, 

And for a father hear a child ! 

Ave Maria ! 
XXX. 
Died on the harp the closing hymn — 
Unmoved in attitude and limb, 
As list'ning still, Clan-Alpine's lord 
Stood leaning on his heavy sword, 
Until the page, with humble sign, 
Twice pointed to the sun's decline. 
Then while his plaid he round him cast, 
" It is the last time — 'tis the last," 
He mutter'd thrice, — " the last time e'er 
That angel voice shall Roderick hear ! " 
It was a goading thought — his stride 
Hied hastier down the mountain-side; 
Sullen he flung him in the boat, 
And instant 'cross the lake it shot. 
They landed in that silvery bay, 
And eastward held their hasty way, 
Till, with the latest beams of light, 
The band arrived on Lanrick height, 
Whore muster'd, in the vale below, 
Clan -Alpine's men in martial show. 

XXXI. 

A various scene the clansmen made, 
Som^ sate, some stood, some slowly stray 'd ; 



134 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But most with mantles folded round, 
Were couch'd to rest upon the ground, 
Scarce to be known by curious eye, 
From the deep heather where they lie, 
So well was match'd the tartan screen 
With heath-bell dark and brackens green ; 
Unless where, here and there, a blade, 
Or lance's point, a glimmer made, 
Like glow-worm twinkling through the 

shade. 
But when, advancing through the gloom, 
They saw the Chieftain's eagle plume, 
Their shout of welcome, shrill and wide, 
Shook the steep mountain's steady side. 
Thrice it arose, and lake and fell 
Three times return'd the martial yell ; 
It died upon Bochastle's plain, 
And Silence claim'd her evening reign. 



CANTO FOURTH. 

THE PROPHECY. 
I. 

"The rose is fairest when 'tis budding new, 
And hope is brightest when it dawns 

from fears ; 
The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning 

dew, 
And love is loveliest when embalm'd in 

tears. 
O wilding rose, whom fancy thus*endears, 
I bid your blossoms in my bonnet wave, 
Emblem of hope and love through future 

years ! " 
Thus spoke young Norman, heir of Ar- 

mandave, 
What time the sun arose on Vennachar s 

broad wave. 

II. 
Such fond conceit, half said, half sung, 
Love prompted to the bridegroom's tongue. 
All while he stripp'd the wild-rose spray, 
His axe and bow beside him lay, 
For on a pass 'twixt lake and wood, 
A wakeful sentinel he stood. 
. Hark ! on the rock a footstep rung, 
And instant to his arms he sprung. 
"Stand, or thou diest !— What, Malise? 

— soon 
Art thou return'd from Braes of Doune. 
By thy keen step and glance I know, 
Thou bring st us tidings of the foe." — 
(For while the Fiery Cross hied on, 
On distant scout had Malise gone.) 



"Where sleeps the Chief?" the hench- 
man said. — 
"Apart, in yonder misty glade ; 
To his lone couch I'll be your guide."— 
Then call'd a slumberer by his side, 
And 6tirr'd him with his slacken'd bow — 
" Up, up, Glentarkin ! rouse thee, ho ! 
We seek the Chieftain ; on the track, 
Keep eagle watch till I come back." 

in. 
Together up the pass they sped : 
" What of the foemen ? " Norman said. — 
' ' Varying reports from near and far ; 
This certain — that a band of war 
Has for two days been ready boune, 
At. prompt command, to march from 

Doune ; 
King James, the while, with princely 

powers, 
Holds revelry in Stirling towers. 
Soon will this dark and gathering cloud 
Speak on our glens in thunder loud. 
Inured to bide such bitter bout, 
The warrior's plaid may bear it out ; 
But, Norman, how wilt thou provide 
A shelter for thy bonny bride ?" 
' ' What ! know ye not that Roderick's care 
To the lone isle hath caused repair 
Each maid and matron of the clan, 
And every child and aged man 
Unfit for arms ; and given his charge, } 
Nor skiff nor shallop, boat nor barge, 
Upon these lakes shall float at large, 
But all beside the islet moor, 
That such dear pledge may rest secure?" — 



" 'Tis well advised — the Chieftain's plan 

Bespeaks the father of his clan. 

But wherefore sleeps Sir Roderick Dhu 

Apart from all his followers true ? " — 

" It is because last evening-tide 

Brian an augury hath tried, 

Of that dread kind which must not be 

Unless in dread extremity, 

The Taghairm call'd ; by which, afar, 

Our sires foresaw the events of war.3 2 

Duncraggan's milk-white bull they slew." 

malise. 
" Ah ! well the gallant brute I knew ! 
The choicest of the prey we had, 
When swept our merry-men Gallangad. 
His hide was snow, his horns were dark, 
His red eye glow'd like fiery spark ; 
So fierce, so tameless, and so fleet, 
Sore did he cumber our retreat, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



ni 



And kept our stoutest kernes in awe, 
Even at the pass of Beal 'maha. 
But steep and flinty was the road, 
And sharp the hurrying pikemen's goad, 
And when we came to Dennan's Row, 
A child might scatheless stroke his brow. ' '- 



NORMAN. 

"That bull was slain : his reeking hide 
They stretch'd the cataract beside, 
Whose waters their wild tumult toss 
Adown the black and craggy boss* 
Of that huge cliff, whose ample verge 
Tradition calls the Hero's Targe.33 
Couch'd on a shelve beneath its brink, 
Close where the thundering torrents sink, 
Rocking beneath their headlong sway, 
And drizzled by the ceaseless spray, 
Midst groan of rock, and roar of stream, 
The wizard waits prophetic dream. 
Nor distant rests the Chief ; — but hush ! 
See, gliding slow through mist and bush, 
The hermit gains yon rock, and stands 
To gaze upon our slumbering bands. 
Seems he not, Malise, like a ghost, 
That hovers o'er a slaughter'd host? 
Or raven on the blasted oak, 
That, watching while the deer is broke, 
His morsel claims with sullen croak?" 

MALISE. 

— " Peace ! peace ! to other than to me, 

Thy words were evil augury ; 

But still I hold Sir Roderick's blade 

Clan-Alpine's omen and her aid, 

Not aught that, glean'd from heaven or hell, 

Yon fiend-begotten monk can tell. 

The Chieftain joins him, see — and now, 

Together they descend the brow." 



And as they came, with Alpine's Lord 
The Hermit Monk held solemn word : — 
" Roderick ! it is a fearful strife, 
For man endow'd with mortal life, 
Whose shroud of sentient clay can still 
Feel feverish pang and fainting chill, 
Whose eye can stare in stony trance, 
Whose hair can rouse like warrior's lance ,- 
'Tis hard for such to view unfurl'd 
The curtain of the future world. 
Yet, witness every quaking limb, 
My sunken pulse, my eyeballs dim, 
My soul with harrowing anguish torn, — 
This for my Chieftain have I borne I— 



The shapes that sought my fearful couch, 
A human tongue may ne'er avouch ; 
No mortal man, — save he, who, bred 
Between the living and the dead, 
Is gifted beyond nature's law, — 
Had e'er survived to say he saw. 
At length the fatal answer came, ! 
In characters of living flame ! 
Not spoke in word, nor blazed in scroll, 
But borne and branded on my soul ; — 
Which spills the foremost foe- 
man's life, 
That party conquers in the 
strife! "34 

VII. 
"Thanks, Brian, for thy zeal and care 1 
Good is thine augury, and fair. 
Clan-Alpine ne'er in battle stood, 
But first our broadswords tasted blood. 
A surer victim still I know, 
Self-offer'd to the auspicious blow ; 
A spy has sought my land this morn,— 
No eye shall witness his return! 
My followers guard each pass's mouth, 
To east, to westward, and to south ; 
Red Murdock, bribed to be his guide, 
Has charge to lead his steps aside, 
Till, in deep path or dingle brown, 
He light on those shall bring him down. 
— But see, who comes his news to show ! 
Malise ! what tidings of the foe ? " — 

VIIT. 

"At Doune, o'er many a spear and glaive 

Two Barons proud their banners wave. 

I saw the Moray's silver star, 

And mark'd the sable pale of Mar." — 

"By Alpine's soul, high tidings those ! 

I love to hear of worthy foes. 

When move they on?" — "To-morrow's 

noon 
Will see them here for battle boune." — 
" Then shall it see a meeting stern ! — 
But, for the place — say, couldst thou learn 
Nought of the friendly clans of Earn ? 
Strengthen'd by them, we well might bide 
The battle on Benledi's side. 
Thou couldst not ?— Well ! Clan-Alpine's 

men 
Shall man the Trosach's shaggy glen ; 
Within Loch Katrine's gorge we'll fight, 
All in our maids' and matrons' sight, 
Each for his hearth and household fire, 
Father for child, and son for sire, — 
Lover for maid beloved ! — But why — 
Is it the breeze affects mine eye? 



13« 



scorrs poetical works. 



Or dost thou come, ill-omen'd tear ! 

A messenger of dOubt or fear? 

No! sooner may the Saxon lance 

Unfix Benledi from his stance, 

Than doubt or terror can pierce through 

The unyielding heart of Roderick Dhu ! 

'Tis stubborn as his trusty targe. — 

Each to his post ! — all know their charge." 

The pibroch sounds, the bands advance, 

The broadswords gleam, the banners 

dance, 
Obedient to the Chieftain's glance. 
— I turn me from the martial roar, 
And seek Coir-Uriskin once more. 

IX. 

Where is the Douglas ? — he is gone ; 
And Ellen sits on the gray stone 
Fast by the cave, and makes her moan 
While vainly Allan's words of cheer 
Are pour'd on her unheeding ear. — 
" He will return — Dear lady, trust ! — 
With joy return ; — he will — he must. 
Well was it time to seek, afar, 
Some refuge from impending war, 
When e'en Clan-Alpine's rugged swarm 
Are cow'd by the approaching storm. 
I saw their boats with many a light, 
Floating the live-long yesternight, 
Shifting like flashes darted forth 
By the red streamers of the north ; 
I mark'd at morn how close they ride, 
Thick moor'd by the lone islet's side, 
Like wild-ducks couching in the fen, 
When stoops the hawk upon the glen. 
Since this rude race dare not abide 
The peril on the mainland side, 
Shall not thy noble father's care 
Some safe retreat for thee prepare ? " — 



" No, Allan, no! Pretext so kind 
My wakeful terrors could not blind. 
When in such tender tone, yet grave, 
Douglas a parting blessing gave, 
The tear that glisten'd in his eye 
Drown'd not his purpose fix'd on high. 
My soul, though feminine and weak, 
Can image his ; e'en as the lake, 
Itself disturb'd by slightest stroke, 
Reflects the invulnerable rock. 
He hears report of battle rife, 
He deems himself the cause of strife. 
I saw him redden, when the theme 
Turn'd, Allan, on thine idle dream, 



Of Malcolm Grreme, in fetters bound, 
Which I, thou saidst, about him wound. 
Think'st thou he trow'd thine omen aught? 
Oh no ! 'twas apprehensive thought 
For the kind youth,— for Roderick too— 
(Let me be just) that friend so true; 
In danger both, and in our cause! 
Minstrel, the Douglas dare not pause. 
Why else that solemn warning given, 
' If not on earth, we meet in heaven 1 ' 
Why else, to Cambus kenneth's fane, 
If eve return him not again, 
Am I to hie, and make me known? 
Alas ! he goes to Scotland's throne, 
Buys his friend's safety with his own ; — 
He goes to do— what I had done, 
Had Douglas' daughter been his son ! " — 



' ' Nay, lovely Ellen ! — dearest, nay ! 
If aught should his return delay, 
He only named yon holy fane 
As fitting place to meet again. 
Be sure he's safe ; and for the Graeme,- 
Heaven's blessing on his gallant name!- 
My vision'd sight may yet prove true, 
Nor bode of ill to him or you. 
When did my gifted dream beguile ? 
Think of the stranger at the isle, 
And think upon the harpings slow, 
That presaged this approaching woe? 
Sooth was my prophecy of fear ; 
Believe it when it augurs cheer. 
Would we had left this dismal spot ! 
Ill luck still haunts a fairy grot. 
Of such a wondrous tale I know- 
Dear lady, change that look of woe, 
My harp was wont thy grief to cheer. "- 



1 ' Well, be it as thou wilt ; I hear, 
But cannot stop the bursting tear." 
The Minstrel tried his simple art, 
But distant far was Ellen's heart. 

xir. 

BALLAD. 
Alice Brand. 
Merry it is in the good greenwood, 
Where the mavis* and merle f are 
singing, 
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds 
are in cry, 
And the hunter's horn is ringing. 

* Mavis, a thrush t Merle, a blackbird. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



m 



" O Alice Brand, my native land 

Is lost for love of you ; 
And we must hold by wood and wold, 

As outlaws wont to do. 

V O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright, 
And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue, 

That on the night of our luckless flight, 
Thy brother bold I slew. 

"Now must I teach to hew the beech 
The hand that held the glaive, 

For leaves to spread our lowly bed, 
And stakes to fence our cave. 

" And for vest of pall, thy fingers small, 

That wont on harp to stray, 
A cloak must sheer from the slaughter'd 
deer, 

To keep the cold away." — 

" O Richard ! if my brother died, 

'Twas but a fatal chance, 
For darkling was the battle tried, 

And fortune sped the lance. 

" If pall and vair no more I wear, 

Nor thou the crimson sheen, 
As warm, we'll say, is the russet gray, 

As gay the forest green. 

"And, Richard, if our lot be hard, 

And lost thy native land, 
Still Alice has her own Richard, 

And he his Alice Brand." 



BALLAD CONTINUED. 

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 
So blithe Lady Alice is singing ; 

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side, 
Lord's Richard's axe is ringing. 

Up spoke the moody Elfin King, 
Who wonn'd within the hill, — 

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church, 
His voice was ghostly shrill. 

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 
Our moonlight circle's screen ? 

Or who comes here to chase the deer, 
Beloved of our Elfin Queen ?35 

Or who may dare on wold to wear 
The fairies' fatal green ?36 

" Up, Urgan, up ! to yon mortal hie, 
For thou wert christen'd man ; 37 

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly, 
For mutter'd word or ban. 



" Lay on him the curse of the wither'd 
heart, 
The curse of the sleepless eye ; 
Till he wish and pray that his life would 
part, 
Nor yet find leave to die." 

XIV. 
BALLAD CONTINUED. 

'Tis merry, 'tis merry, in good greenwood, 
Though the birds have still' d their sing- 
ing ; 

The evening blaze doth Alice raise, 
And Richard is fagots bringing. 

Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf 

Before Lord Richard stands, 
And, as he cross'd and bless'd himself, 
" I fear not sign," quoth the grisly elf, 

"That is made with bloody hands." 

But out then spoke she, Alice Brand, 

That woman void of fear, — 
"And if there's blood upon his hand, 

'Tis but the blood of doer." — 

" Now loud thouliest, thou bold of mood ! 

It cleaves unto his hand, 
The stain of thine own kindly blood, 

The blood of Ethert Brand." 

Then forward stepp'd she, Alice Brand, 

And made the holy sign, — 
" And if there's blood on Richard's hand, 

A spotless hand is mine. 

"And I conjure thee, Demon elf, 

By Him whom Demons fear, 
To show us whence thou art thyself, 

And what thine errand here ? " — 

XV. 

BALLAD CONTINUED. 

" 'Tis merry, 'tis merry in Fairy-land, 
When fairy birds are singing, 

When the court doth ride by their mon- 
arch's side, 
With bit and bridle ringing : 

" And gaily shines the Fairy-land — 

But all is glistening show, 
Like the idle gleam that December s beam 

Can dart on ice and snow. 

"And fading, like that varied gleam, 

Is our inconstant shape, 
Who now like knight and lady seem, 

And now like dwarf and ape. 

"It was between the night and day, 
When the Fairy King has power, 



13* 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That I sunk down in a sinful fray, 
And 'twixt life and death, was snatch'd 
away 
To the joyless Elfin bower. 

" But wist I of a woman bold, 
Who thrice my brow durst sign, 

I might regain my mortal mold, 
As fair a form as thine." 

She cross'd him once— she cross'd him 
twice — 

That lady was so brave ; 
The fouler grew his goblin hue. 

The darker grew the cave. 

She cross'd him thrice, that lady bold ; 

He rose beneath her hand 
The fairest knight on Scottish mold, 

Her brother, Ethert Brand ! 

Merry it is in good greenwood, 

When the mavis and merle are singing, 
But merrier were they in Dunfermline gray, 

When all the bells were ringing. 

XVI. 

Just as the minstrel sounds were staid, 

A stranger climb'd the steepy glade : 

His martial step, his stately mien, 

His hunting suit of Lincoln green, 

His eagle glance, remembrance claims — 

'Tis Snowdoun's Knight, 'tis James Fitz- 

James. 
Ellen beheld as in a dream, 
Then, starting, scarce suppress'd a scream : 
" O stranger ! in such hour of fear, 
What evil hap has brought thee here?" — 
" An evil hap how can it be, 
That bids me look again on thee? 
By promise bound, my former guide 
Met me betimes this morning tide, 
And marshall'd, over bank and bourne, 
The happy path of my return." — 
1 ' The happy path ! — what ! said he nought 
Of war, of battle to be fought, 
Of guarded pass ?" — " No, by my faith ! 
Nor saw I aught could augur scathe." — 
" O haste thee, Allan, to the kern, 
— Yonder his tartans I discern ; 
Learn thou his purpose, and conjure 
That he will guide the stranger sure ! — 
What prompted thee, unhappy man? 
The meanest serf in Roderick's clan 
Had not been bribed by love or fear, 
Unknown to him to guide thee here." — 

XVII. 

" Sweet Ellen, dear my life must be, 
Since it is worthy care from thee ; 



Yet life I hold but idle breath, 

When love or honour's weigh'd with death. 

Then let me profit by my chance, 

And speak my purpose bold at once. ■ 

I come to bear thee from a wild, 

Where ne'er before such blossom smiled ; 

By this soft hand to lead thee far 

From frantic scenes of feud and war. 

Near Bochastle my horses wait ; 

They bear us soon to Stirling gate. 

I'll place thee in a lovely bower, 

I'll guard thee like a tender flower " 

"O! hush, Sir Knight! 'twere female 

art, 
To say I do not read thy heart ; 
Too much, before, my selfish ear 
Was idly soothed my praise to hear. 
That fatal bait hath lured thee back, 
In deathful hour, o'er dangerous track ; 
And how, O how, can I atone 
The wreck my vanity brought on ! 
One way remains — I'll tell him all — 
Yes ! struggling bosom, forth it shall ! 
Thou, whose light folly bears the blame, 
Buy thine own pardon with thy shame ! 
But first — my father is a man 
Outlaw'd and exiled, under ban ; 
The price of blood is on his head, 
With me 'twere infamy to wed. — 
Still wouldst thou speak ? — then hear the 

truth ! 
Fitz-James, there is a noble youth, — 
If yet he is ! — exposed for me 
And mine to dread extremity — 
Thou hast the secret of my heart : 
Forgive, be generous, and depart ! " 

XVIII. 

Fitz-James knew every wily train 

A lady's fickle heart to gain ; 

But here he knew and felt them vain. 

There shot no glance from Ellen's eye, 

To give her steadfast speech the lie ; , 

In maiden confidence she stood, 

Though mantled in her cheek the blood, 

And told her love with such a sigh 

Of deep and hopeless agony, 

As death had seal'd her Malcolm's doom, 

And she sat sorrowing on his tomb. 

Hope vanish' d from Fitz-James's eye, 

But not with hope fled sympathy. 

He proffer'd to attend her side, 

As brother would a sister guide. ■*- 

"O! little know'st thou Roderick's heart! 

Safer for both we go apart. 

O haste thee, and from Allan learn, 

If thou may'st trust yon wily kern." 



THE LAD Y OF THE LAKE. 



139 



With hand upon his forehead laid, 
The conflict of his mind to shade, 
A parting step or two he made ; 
Then, as some thought had cross'd his 

brain, 
He paused, and turn'd, and came again. 

XIX. 

" Hear, lady, yet, a parting word ! — 
It chanced in fight that my poor sword 
Preserved the life of Scotland's lord. 
This ring the grateful monarch gave, 
And bade when I had boon to crave, 
To bring it back, and boldly claim 
The recompense that I would name. 
Ellen, I am no courtly lord, 
But one who lives by lance and sword, 
Whose castle is his helm and shield, 
His lordship the embattled field. 
What from a prince can I demand, 
Who neither reck of state nor land ? 
Ellen, thy hand — the ring is thine ; 
Each guard and usher knows the sign. 
Seek thou the king without delay ; 
This signet shall secure thy way ; 
And claim thy suit, whate'er it be, 
As ransom of his pledge to me." 
He placed the golden circlet on, 
Paused — kiss'd her hand — and then was 

gone. 
The aged Minstrel stood aghast, 
So hastily Fitz-James shot past. 
He join'd his guide, and wending down 
The ridges of the mountain brown, 
Across the stream they took their way, 
That joins Loch Katrine to Achray. 

xx. 
All in the Trosach's glen was still, 
Noontide was sleeping on the hill ; 
Sudden his guide whoop'd loud and high — 
" Murdoch ! was that a signal cry ? " — 
He stammer'd forth, — " I shout to scare 
Yon raven from his dainty fare." 
He look'd — he knew the raven's prey, 
His own brave steed : — ' ' Ah ! gallant gray! 
For thee — for me, perchance — 'twere well 
We ne'er had seen the Trosach's dell. — 
Murdoch, move first— but silently; 
Whistle or whoop, and thou shalt die ! " 
Jealous and sullen on they fared, 
Each silent, each upon his guard. 

xxr. 
Now wound the path its dizzy ledge 
Around a precipice's edge, 
When lo ! a wasted female form, 
Blighted by wrath of sun and storm, 



In tatter'd weeds and wild array, 
Stood on a cliff beside the way, 
And glancing round her restless eye,' 
Upon the wood, the rock, the sky, 
Seem'd nought to mark, yet all to spy. 
Her brow was wreath'd with gaudybroom ; 
With gesture wild she waved a plume 
Of leathers, which the eagles fling 
To crag and cliff from dusky wing ; 
Such spoils her desperate step had sought, 
Where scarce was footing for the goat. 
The tartan plaid she first descried, 
And shriek'd till all the rocks replied ; 
As loud she laugh'd when near they drew, 
For then the Lowland garb she knew ; 
And then her hands she wildly wrung, 
And then she wept, and then she sung — 
She sung ! — the voice, in better time, 
Perchance to harp or lute might chime ; 
And now, tho' strain'd and roughen' d, still 
Rung wildly sweet to dale and hill. 

XXII. 
SONG. 

" They bid me sleep, they bid me pray, 

They say my brain iswarp'd and wrung — 
I cannot sleep on Highland brae, 

I cannot pray in Highland tongue. 
But were 1 now where Allan * glides, 
Or heard my native Devan's tides, 
So sweetly would I rest, and pray 
That Heaven would close my wintry day ! 

" 'Twas thus my hair they bade me braid, 
They made me to the church repair ; 

It was my bridal morn they said, 
And my true love would meet me there. 

But woe betide the cruel guile, 

Thatdrown'd in blood the morning smile! 

And woe betide the fairy dream ! 

I only waked to sob and scream." 



" Who is this maid? what means her lay? 
She hovers o'er the hollow way, 
And flutters wide her mantle gray, 
As the lone heron spreads his wing, 
By twilight, o'er a haunted spring." — 
" 'Tis Blanche of Devan," Murdoch said, 
"A crazed and captive Lowland maid, 
Ta'en on the morn she was a bride, 
When Roderick foray'd Devan-side, 
The gay bridegroom resistance made, 
And felt our Chief's unconquer'd blade. 



* Allan and Devan, two rivers running 
through Stirling Plain. 



4 



140 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



I marvel sh» is now at large, 

But oft she 'scapes from Maudlin's charge. — 

Hence, brain-sick fool ! " — He raised his 

bow : — 
" Now, if thou strikest her but one blow, 
I'll pitch thee from the cliff as far 
As ever peasant pitch' d a bar! " — 
1 ' Thanks, champion, thanks ! " the Maniac 

cried, 
And press'd her to Fitz-James's side. 
* ' See the gray pennons I prepare, 
To seek my true-love through the air ; 
I will not lend that savage groom, 
To break his fall, one downy plume ! 
No ! —deep amid disjointed stones, 
The wolves shall batten on his bones, 
And then shall his detested plaid, 
By bush and briar in mid air staid, 
Wave forth a banner fair and free, 
Meet signal for their revelry." — 

XXIV. 

"Hush thee, poor maiden, and be still! " — 
" O ! thou look' st kindly, and I will. — 
Mine eye has dried and wasted been, 
But still it loves the Lincoln green ; 
And, though mine ear is all unstrung, 
Still, still it loves the Lowland tongue. 

" For O my sweet William was forester 
true, 
He stole poor Blanche's heart away ! 

His coat it was all of the greenwood hue, 
And so blithely he trill'd the Lowland 
lay ! 
" It was not that I meant to tell, 
But thou art wise and guessest well." 
Then, in a low and broken tone, 
And hurried note, the song went on. 
Still on the Clansman, fearfully, 
She fix'd her apprehensive eye ; 
Then turn'd it on the Knight, and then 
Her look glanced wildly o'er the glen. 

XXV. 

"The toils are pitch'd, and the stakes 
are set, 
Ever sing merrily, merrily ; 
The bows they bend, and the knives 
they whet, 
Hunters live so cheerily. 

" It was a stag, a stag of ten,* 
Bearing its branches sturdily ; 

He came stately down the glen, 
Ever sing hardily, hardily. 



* Of ten branches to his antlers ; a royal or 
noble deer. 



" It was there he met with a wounded 
doe, 

She was bleeding deathfully ; 
She warn'd him of the toils below, 

O, so faithfully, faithfully ! 

" He had an eye, and he could heed, 

Ever sing warily, warily ; 
He had a foot, and he could speed — 

Hunters watch so narrowly." 

XXVI. 

Fitz-James's mind was passion-toss'd, 
When Ellen's hints and fears were lost ; 
But Murdoch's shout suspicion wrought, 
And Blanche's song conviction brought. — 
Not like a stag that spies the snare, 
But lion of the hunt aware, 
He waved at once his blade on high, 
" Disclose thy treachery, or die !" 
Forth at full speed the Clansman flew, 
But in his race his bow he drew. 
The shaft just grazed Fitz-James's crest. 
And thrill'd in Blanche's faded breast, — 
Muidoch of Alpine ! prove thy speed, 
For ne'er had Alpine's son such need ! 
With heart of fire, and foot of wind, 
The fierce avenger is behind ! 
Fate judges of the rapid strife — 
The forfeit death— the prize is life ! 
Thy kindred ambush lies before, 
Close couch'd upon the heathery moor; 
Them couldst thou reach — it may not be — 
Thine ambush' d kin thou ne'er shalt see, 
The fiery Saxon gains on thee ! 
— Resistless speeds the deadly thrust, 
As lightning strikes the pine to dust ; 
With foot and hand Fitz-James must 

strain, 
Ere he can win his blade again. 
Bent o'er the fallen, with falcon eye, 
He grimly smiled to see him die ; 
Then slower wended back his way, 
Where the poor maiden bleeding lay. 



She sate beneath the, birchen tree, 
Her elbow resting on her knee ; 
She had withdrawn the fatal shaft, 
And gazed on it, and feebly laugh'd ; 
Her wreath of broom and feathers gray, 
Daggled with blood, beside her lay. 
The Knight to stanch the life-stream 

tried, — 
"Stranger, it is in vain ! " she cried. 
"This hour of death has given me more 
Of reason's power than years before ; 



. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



141 



For, as these ebbing veins decay, 
My frenzied visions fade away. 
A helpless injured wretch I die, 
And something tells me in thine eye, 
That thou wert mine avenger born. — 
Seest thou this tress ?— O ! still I've worn 
This little tress of yellow hair, 
Through danger, frenzy, and despair ! 
It once was bright and clear as thine, 
But blood and tears have dimm'd its shine. 
I will not tell thee when 'twas shred, 
Nor from what guiltless victim's head — 
My brain would turn ! — but it shall wave 
Like plumage on thy helmet brave, 
Till sun and wind shall bleach the stain, 
And thou wilt bring it me again. — 
I waver still. — O God ! more bright 
Let reason beam her parting light ! — 
O ! by thy knighthood's honour'd sign, 
And for thy life preserved by mine, 
When thou shalt see a darksome man, 
Who boasts him Chief of Alpine's Clan, 
With tartans broad and shadowy plume, 
And hand of blood, and brow of gloom, 
Be thy heart bold, thy weapon strong, 
And wreak poor Blanche of Devan's 

wrong ! — 
They watch for thee by pass and fell . . . 
Avoid the path . . . O God ! . . . . fare- 
well." 



A kindly heart had brave Fitz-James ; 

Fast pour'd his eyes at pity's claims, 

And now with mingled grief and ire, 

He saw the murder'd maid expire. 

" God, in my need, be my relief, 

As I wreak this on yonder Chief ! " 

A lock from Blanche's tresses fair 

He blended with her bridegroom's hair ; 

The mingled braid in blood he dyed, 

And placed it on his bonnet-side : 

" By Him whose word is truth! I swear, 

No other favour will I wear, 

Till this sad token I imbrue 

In the best blood of Roderick Dhu ! 

— But hark ! what means yon faint halloo? 

The chase is up, — but they shall know, 

The stag at bay 's a dangerous foe." 

Barr'd from the known but guarded 

way, 
Through copse and cliffs Fitz-James must 

stray, 
And oft must change his desperate track, 
By stream and precipice turn'd back. 
Heartless, fatigued, and faint, at length, 
From lack of food and loss of strength, 



He couch'd him in a thicket hoar, 
And thought his toils and perils o'er: — 
" Of all my rash adventures past, 
This frantic feat must prove the last ! 
Who e'er so mad but might have guess'd, 
That all this Highland hornet's nest 
Would muster up in swarms so soon 
As e'er they heard of bands at Doune? — 
Like bloodhounds now they search me 

out, — 
Hark, to the whistle and the shout ! — 
If farther through the wilds I go, 
I only fall upon the foe : 
I'll couch me here till evening gray, 
Then darkling try my dangerous way." 

XXIX. 

The shades of eve come slowly down, 
The woods are wrapt in deeper brown, 
The owl awakens from her dell, 
The fox is heard upon the fell ; 
Enough remains of glimmering light 
To guide the wanderer's steps aright. 
Yet not enough from far to show 
His figure to the watchful foe. 
With cautious step, and ear awake, 
He climbs the crag and threads the brake ; 
And not the summer solstice, there, 
Temper'd the midnight mountain air, 
But every breeze, that swept the wold, 
Benumb' d his drenched limbs with cold. 
In dread, in danger, and alone, 
Famish'd and chill' d, through ways un- 
known, 
Tangled and steep, he journey'd on ; 
Till, as a rock's huge point he turn'd, 
A watch-fire close before him burn'd. 



Beside its embers red and clear, 
Bask'd, in his plaid, a mountaineer ; 
And up he sprung with sword in hand, — 
"Thy name and purpose ! Saxon, 

stand ! " — 
"A stranger." — "What dost thou re- 
quire?" 
" Rest and a guide, and food and fire. 
My life's beset, my path is lost, 
The gale has chill'd my limbs with frost."— 
"Art thou a friend to Roderick?" — 

"No."— 
"Thou darest not call thyself a foe ? " — 
" I dare! to him and all the band 
He brings to aid his murderous hand." — 
" Bold words!— but, though the beast of 

game 
The privilege of chase may claim, 



r 



I 4 2 



scorrs poetical works. 



Though space and law the stag we lend, 
Ere hound we slip, or bow we bend, 
Who ever reck'd, where, how, or when, 

The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain? 38 

Thus treacherous scouts, — yet sure they lie, 

v thou earnest a secret spy ! " 
•'They do, by heaven !— Come Roderick 

Dhu. 
And of his clan the boldest two, 
And let nie but till morning rest, 
I write the falsehood on their crest." — 
" If by the blaze I mark aright, 
Thou bear'st the belt and spur of 

Knight."— 
1 ' Then by these tokens mayest thou know 
Each proud oppressor's mortal foe." — 
" Enough, enough ; sit down and share 
A soldier's couch, a soldier's fare." 

xxxr. 
He gave him of his Highland cheer, 
The harden'd flesh of mountain deer ; 39 
Dry fuel on the fire he laid, 
And bade the Saxon share his plaid. 
He tended him like welcome guest, 
Then thus his farther speech address'd. 
J* Stranger, I am to Roderick Dhu 
A clansman born, a kinsman true ; 
Each word against his honour spoke, 
Demands of me avenging stroke ; 
Yet more, — upon thy fate, 'tis said, 
A mighty augury is laid, 
It rests with me to wind my horn, — 
Thou art with numbers overborne ; 
It rests with me, here, brand to brand, 
Worn as thou art, to bid thee stand : 
But, not for clan, nor kindred's cause, 
Will I depart from honour's laws ; 
To assail a wearied man were shame, 
And stranger is a holy name ; 
Guidance and rest, and food and fire, 
In vain he never must require. 
Then rest thee here till dawn of day ; 
Myself will guide thee on the way, 
O'er stock and stone, through watch and 

ward, 
Till past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard, 
As far as Coilantogle's ford ; 
From thence thy warrant is thy sword." — 
" I take thy courtesy, by heaven, 
As freely as 'tis nobly given ! " 
" Well, rest thee ; for the bittern's ciy 
Sings us the lake's wild lullaby." 
With that he shook the gather'd heath, 
And spread his plaid upon the wreath ; 
And the brave foemen, side by side, 
Lay peaceful down like brothers tried, 



And slept until the dawning beam 
Purpled the mountain and the stream. 



CANTO FIFTH. 

THE COMBAT. 
I. 

Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, 
When first, by the bewilder'd pilgrim 
spied, 
It smiles upon the dreary brow of night, 
And silvers o'er the torrent's foaming 
tide, 
And lights the fearful path on mountain 
side, 
Fair as that beam, although the fairest 
far, 
Giving to horror grace, to danger pride, 
Shine martial Faith, and Courtesy's 
bright star, 
Through all the wreckful storms that 
cloud the brow of War. 

ii. 
That early beam, so fair and sheen, 
Was twinkling through the hazel screen, 
When, rousing at its glimmer red, 
The warriors left their lowly bed, 
Look'd out upon the dappled sky, 
Mutter'd their soldier matins by, 
And then awaked their fire, to steal, 
As short and rude, their soldier meal. 
That o'er, the Gael* around him threw 
His graceful plaid of varied hue, 
And, true to promise, led the way, 
By thicket green and mountain gray. 
A wildering path ! — they winded now 
Along the precipice's brow, 
Commanding the rich scenes beneath, 
The windings of the Forth and Teith, 
And all the vales beneath that lie, 
Till Stirling's turrets melt in sky ; 
Then, sunk in copse, their farthest glance 
Gain'd not the length of horseman's lance. 
'Twas oft so steep, the foot was fain 
Assistance from the hand to gain ; 
So tangled oft, that, bursting through, 
Each hawthorn shed her showers of dew,— 
That diamond dew, so pure and clear, 
It rivals all but Beauty's tear ! 

hi. 
At length they came where, stern and steep, 
The hill sinks down upon the deep. 



* Gael, the ancient or Celtic name of a High- 
lander. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



M3 



Here Vennachar in silver flows, 
There, ridge on ridge, Benledi rose ; 
Ever the hollow path twined on, 
Beneath steep bank and threatening stone ; 
An hundred men might hold the post 
With hardihood against a host. 
The rugged mountain's scanty cloak 
Was dwarfish shrubs of birch and oak, 
With shingles bare, and cliffs between, 
And patches bright of bracken green, 
And heather black, that waved so high, 
It held the copse in rivalry. 
But where the lake slept deep and still, 
Dank osiers fringed the swamp and hill ; 
And oft both path and hill were torn, 
Where wintry torrents down had borne, 
And heap'd upon the cumber'd land 
Its wreck of gravel, rocks, and sand. 
So toilsome was the road to trace, 
The guide, abating of his pace, 
Led slowly through the pass's jaws, 
And ask'd Fit z-James, by what strange cause 
He sought these wilds? traversed by few, 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. 

IV. 

"Brave Gael, my pass in danger tried, 
Hangs in my belt and by my side ; 
Yet, sooth to tell," the Saxon said, 
" I dreamt not now to claim its aid. 
When here, but three days since, I came, 
Bewilder'd in pursuit of game, 
All seem'd as peaceful and as still 
As the mist slumbering on yon hill ; 
Thy dangerous Chief was then afar, 
Nor soon expected back from war. 
Thus said, at least, my mountain-guide, 
Though deep, perchance, thevillainlied." — 
" Yet why a second venture try?" 
"A warrior thou, and ask me why ! — 
Voves our free course by such fix'd cause, 
As gives the poor mechanic laws : 
Enough, I sought to drive away 
The lazy hours of peaceful day : 
Slight cause will then suffice to guide 
A Knight's free footsteps far and wide— 
A falcon flown, a greyhound stray 'd, 
The merry glance of mountain maid : 
Or, if a path be dangerous known, 
The danger's self is lure alone." 

v. 
"Thy secret keep, I urge thee not:— 
Yet, ere again ye sought this spot, 
Say, heard ye nought of Lowland war, 
Against Clan-Alpine, raised by Mar ? " 
— " No, by my word ; — of bands prepared 
To guard King James's sports I heard ; 



Nor doubt I aught, but, when they hear 
This muster of the mountaineer, 
Their pennons will abroad be flung, 
Which else in Doune had peaceful hung." — 
" Free be they flung ! — for we were loth 
Their silken folds should feast the moth. 
Free be they flung ! — as free shall wave 
Clan-Alpine's pine in banner brave. 
But, Stranger, peaceful since you came, 
Bewilder'd in the mountain game, 
Whence the bold boast by which you show 
Vich-Alpine's vow'd and mortal foe?" — 
"Warrior, but yester-morn, I knew 
Nought of thy Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Save as an outlaw'd desperate man, 
The chief of a rebellious clan, 
Who, in the Regent's court and sight, 
With ruffian dagger stabb'd a knight: 
Yet this alone might from his part 
Sever each true and loyal heart." 

VI. 

Wrathful at such arraignment foul, 
Dark lower'd the clansman's sable scowl, 
A space he paused, then sternly said, 
' 'And heard'st thou why he drew his blade? 
Heard'st thou that shameful word and blow 
Brought Roderick's vengeance on his foe? 
What reck'd the Chieftain if he stood 
On Highland heath, or Holy-Rood? 
He rights such wrong where it is given, 
If it were in the court of heaven." — ■ 
"Still was it outrage ; — yet, 'tis true, 
Not then claim'd sovereignty his due ; 
While Albany, with feeble hand, 
Held borrow'd truncheon of command,* 
The young King, mew'd in Stirling tower, 
Was stranger to respect and power. 
But then, thy Chieftain's robber life ! — ■ 
Winning mean prey by causeless strife, 
Wrenching from ruin'd Lowland swain 
His herds and harvest rear'd in vain. — 
Methinks a soul, like thine, should scorn 
The spoils from such foul foray borne." 

VII. 

The Gael beheld him grim the while, 
And answer'd with disdainful smile, — 
"Saxon, from yonder mountain high, 
I mark'd thee send delighted eye, 
Far to the south and east, where lay, 
Extended in succession gay, 
Deep waving fields and pastures green, - 
With gentle slopes and groves between :— 
These fertile plains, that soften'd vale, 
Were once the birthright of the Gael ; 
The stranger came with iron hand, 
And from our fathers reft the land. 



144 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS 



Where dwell we now? Sec, rudely swell 

over crag, and fell o'er fell. 
Ask we this savage hill we tread, 
For fatten'd steer or household bread : 
Ask we for flocks these shingles dry, 
And well the mountain might reply, — 
* To you. as to your sires of yore, 
Belong the target and claymore ! 
I give you shelter in my breast, 
Your own good blades must win the rest.' 
Pent in this fortress of the North, 
Think'st thou we will not sally forth, 
To spoil the spoiler as we may, 
And from the robber rend the prey? 
Ay, by my soul ! — While on yon plain 
The Saxon rears one shock of grain ; 
While, of ten thousand herds, there strays 
But one along yon river's maze, — 
The Gael, of plain and river heir, 
Shall, with strong hand, redeem his share. 
Where live the mountain chiefs who hold, 
That plundering Lowland field and fold 
Is aught but retribution true? 
Seek other cause 'gainst Roderick Dhu." — 

VIII. 

Answer'd Fitz-James, — "And, if I sought, 

Think'st thou no other could be brought? 

What deem ye of my path waylaid? 

My life given o'er to ambuscade?" — 

" As of a meed to rashness due : 

Hadst thou sent warning fair and true, — 

I seek my hound, or falcon stray'd, 

I seek, good faith, a Highland maid, — 

Free hadst thou been to come and go ; 

But secret path marks secret foe. 

Nor yet, for this, even as a spy, 

Hadst thou, unheard, been doom'd to die, 

Save to fulfil an augury." — 

" Well, let it pass ; nor will I now 

Fresh cause of enmity avow, 

To chafe thy mood and cloud thy brow. 

Enough, I am by promise tied 

To match rne with this man of pride: 

Twice have I sought Clan-Alpine's glen 

In peace ; but when I come agen, 

I come with banner, brand, and bow, 

As leader seeks his mortal foe. 

For love-lorn swain, in lady's bower, 

Ne'er panted for the appointed hour, 

As I, until before me stand 

This rebel Chieftain and his band ! " — 



"Have, then, thv wish!" — He whistled 

shrill, 
And he was answer'd from the hill ; 



Wild as the scream of the curlew, 
From crag to crag the signal flew. 
Instant, through copse and heath, arose 
Bonnets and spears and bended bows ; 
On right, on left, above, below, 
Sprung up at once the lurking foe ; 
From shingles gray their lances start, 
The bracken bush sends forth the dart, 
The rushes and the willow-wand 
Are bristling into axe and brand, 
And every tuft of broom gives life 
To plaided warrior arm'd for strife. 
That whistle garrison'd the glen 
At once with full five hundred men, 
As if the yawning hill to heaven 
A subterranean host had given. 
Watching their leader's beck and will, 
All silent there they stood, and still. 
Like the loose crags, whose threatening 

mass 
Lay tottering o'er the hollow pass, 
As if an infant's touch could urge 
Their headlong passage down the verge, 
With step and weapon forward flung, 
Upon the mountain-side they hung. 
The Mountaineer cast glance of pride 
Along Benledi's living side, 
Then fix'd his eye and sable brow 
Full on Fitz-James — "How say'st thou 

now ? 
These are Clan-Alpine's warriors true ; 
And, Saxon, — I am Roderick Dhu ! " 

x. 
Fitz-James was brave :— Though to his 

heart 
The life-blood thrill'd with sudden start, 
He mann'd himself with dauntless air, 
Return'd the chief his haughty stare, 
His back against a rock he bore, 
And firmly placed his foot before : — 
' ' Come one, come all ! this rock shall fly 
From its firm base as soon as I." 
Sir Roderick mark' d— and in his eyes 
Respect was mingled with surprise, 
And the stern joy which warriors feel 
In foemen worthy of their steel. 
Short space he stood — then waved his hand: 
Down sunk the disappearing band ; 
Each warrior vanish'd where he stood, 
In broom or bracken, heath or wood ; 
Sunk brand and spear and bended bow, 
In osiers pale and copses low ; 
It seem'd as if their mother Earth 
Had swallow'd up her warlike birth. 
The wind's last breath had toss'd in air, 
Pennon, and plaid, and plumage fair, — 



The next but swept a lone hill-side, 
Where heath and fern were waving wide : 
The sun's last glance was glinted back 
From spear and glaive, from targe and 

jack, — 
The next, all unrefiected, shone 
On bracken green, and cold gray stone. 



Fitz-James look'd round — yet scarce be- 
lieved 
The witness that his sight received ; 
Such apparition well might seem 
Delusion of a dreadful dream. 
Sir Roderick in suspense he eyed, 
And to his look the Chief replied, 
" Fear nought — nay, that I need not say — 
But — doubt not aught from mine array. 
Thou art my guest ; — I pledged my word 
As far as Coilantogle ford : 
Nor would I call a clansman's brand 
For aid against one valiant hand, 
Though on our strife lay every vale 
Rent by the Saxon from the Gael. 
So move we on ;— I only meant 
To show the reed on which you leant, 
Deeming this path you might pursue 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu." 4 1 
They moved: — I said Fitz-James was 

brave, 
As ever knight that belted glaive ; 
Yet dare not say, that now his blood 
Kept on its wont and temper' d flood, 
As, following Roderick's stride, he drew 
That seeming lonesome pathway through, 
Which yet, by fearful proof, was rife 
With lances, that, to take his life, 
Waited but signal from a guide, 
So late dishonour'd and defied. 
Ever, by stealth, his eye sought round 
The vanish'd guardians of the ground, 
And still, from copse and heather deep, 
Fancy saw spear and broadsword peep, 
And in the plover's shrilly strain , 
The signal whistle heard again. 
Nor breathed he free till far behind 
The pass was left ; for then they wind 
Along a wide and level green, 
Where neither tree nor tuft was seen, 
Nor rush, nor bush of broom was near, 
To hide a bonnet or a spear. 

XII. 

The Chief in silence strode before, 
And reach'd that torrent's sounding shore, 
Which, daughter of three mighty lakes, 
From Vennachar in silver breaks, 



Sweeps through the plain, and ceaseless 

mines 
On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
Where Rome, the Empress of the world, 
Of yore her eagle wings unfurl'd.* 2 
And here his course the Chieftain staid, 
Threw down his target and his plaid, 
And. to the Lowland warrior said : — 
" Bold Saxon ! to his promise just, 
Vich-Alpine has discharged his trust. 
This murderous Chief, this ruthless man, 
This head of a rebellious clan, 
Hath led thee safe through watch and ward, 
Far past Clan-Alpine's outmost guard. 
Now, man to man, and steel to steel, 
A chieftain's vengeance thou shalt feel. 
See here, all vantageless I stand, 
Arm'd, like thyself, with single brand : « 
For this is Coilantogle ford, 
And thou must keep thee with thy sword." 

XIII. 

The Saxon paused : — " I ne'er delay'd, 
When foeman bade me draw my blade ; 
Nay, more, brave Chief, I vow'd thy death : 
Yet sure thy fair and generous faith, 
And my deep debt for life preserved, 
A better meed have well deserved : 
Can nought but blood our feud atone ? 
Are there no means?" — "No, Stranger, 

none ! 
And hear, — to fire thy flagging zeal, — 
The Saxon cause rests on thy steel ; 
For thus spoke Fate, by prophet bred 
Between the living and the dead : 
' Who spills the foremost foeman's life, 
His party conquers in the strife.' " — 
" Then, by my word," the Saxon said, 
' ' The riddle is already read. 
Seek yonder brake beneath the cliff, — 
There lies Red Murdoch, stark and stiff. 
Thus Fate has solved her prophecy, 
Then yield to Fate, and not to me. 
To James, at Stirling, let us go, 
When, if thou wilt be still his foe, 
Or if the King shall not agree 
To grant thee grace and favour free, 
I plight mine honour, oath, and word, 
That, to thy native strengths restored, 
With each advantage shalt thou stand, 
That aids thee now to guard thy land." 

XIV. 

Dark lightning flash'd from Roderick's 

eye — 
"Soars thy presumption, then, so high, 
10 



i 

f 



146 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Because a wretched kern ye slew, 
I [omaee to name to Roderick Dim ? 
He yields not, he, to man nor Fate ! 
Thou add'st but fuel to my hate: — 
My clansman's blood demands revenge. 
Not yet prepared?— By heaven, I change 
My thought, and hold thy valour light 
As th.it of some vain carpet knight, . 
Who ill deserved my courteous care, 
And whose best boast is but to wear 
A braid of his fair lady's hair." — 
' ' I thank thee, Roderick, for the word ! 
It nerves my heart, it steels my sword ; 
For I have sworn this braid to stain 
In the best blood that warms thy vein. 
Now, truce, farewell ! and, ruth, begone ! — 
Yet think not that by thee alone, 
Proud Chief ! can courtesy be shown ! 
Though not from copse, or heath, or cairn, 
Start at my whistle clansmen stern, 
Of this small horn one feeble blast 
Would fearful odds against thee cast. 
But fear not — doubt not — which thou 

wilt— 
We try this quarrel hilt to hilt." — 
Then each at once his falchion drew, 
Each on the ground his scabbard threw, 
Each look'd to sun, and stream, and plain, 
As what they ne'er might see again ; 
Then foot, and point, and eye opposed, 
In dubious strife they darkly closed. 



Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his targe he threw, 44 
Whose brazen studs and tough bull-hide 
Had death so often dash'd aside ; 
For, train'd abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz-James's blade was sword and shield. 
He practised every pass and ward, 
To thrust, to strike, to feint, to guard ; 
While less expert, though stronger far, 
The Gael maintain'd unequal war. 
Three times in closing strife they stood, 
And thrice the Saxon blade drank blood ; 
No stinted draught, no scanty tide, 
The gushing flood the tartans dyed. 
Fierce Roderick felt the fatal drain, 
And shower'd his blows like wintry rain ; 
And, as firm rock, or castle-roof, 
Against the winter shower is proof, 
The foe, invulnerable still, 
Foil'd his wild rage by steady skill : 
Till, at advantage ta'en, his brand 
Forced Roderick's weapon from his hand, 
And backward borne upon the lea, 
Brought the proud chieftain to his knee. 



" Now, yield thee, or by Him who made 
The world, thy heart's blood dyes my 

blade ! " 
" Thy threats, thy mercy, I defy ! 
Let recreant yield, who fears to die." 
— Like adder darting from his coil, 
Like wolf that dashes through the toil, 
Like mountain-cat who guards her young, 
Full at Fitz-James's throat he sprung ; 
Received, but reck'd not of a wound, 
And lock'd his arms his foeman round. — 
Now, gallant Saxon, hold thine own ! 
No maiden's hand is round thee thrown ! 
That desperate grasp thy frame might feel, 
Through bars of brass and triple steel ! — 
They tug, they strain ! down, down they go, 
The Gael above, Fitz-James below : 
The Chieftain'sgripe his throat compress'd, 
His knee was planted on his breast ; 
His clotted locks he backward threw, 
Across his brow his hand he drew, 
From blood and mist to clear his sight, 
Then gleam'd aloft his dagger bright ! — 
— But hate and fury ill supplied 
The stream of life's exhausted tide, 
And all too late the advantage came, 
To turn the odds of deadly game ; 
For, while the dagger gleam'd on high, 
Reel'd soul and sense, reel'd brain and eye, 
Down came the blow ! but in the heath 
The erring blade found bloodless sheath. 
The struggling foe may now unclasp 
The fainting Chiefs relaxing grasp ; 
Unwounded from the dreadful close, 
But breathless all, Fitz-James arose. 

XVII. 

He falter'd thanks to Heaven for life, 
Redeem'd, unhoped, from desperate strife ; 
Next on his foe his look he cast, 
Whose every gasp appear' d his last ; 
In Roderick's gore he dipt the braid, — 
' ' Poor Blanche ! thy wrongs are dearly 

paid: 
Yet with thy foe must die, or live, 
The praise that Faith and Valour give. 
With that he blew a bugle-note, 
Undid the collar from his throat, 
Unbonneted, and by the wave 
Sate down his brow and hands to lave. 
Then faint afar are heard the feet 
Of rushing steeds in gallop fleet ; 
The sounds increase, and now are seen 
Four mounted squires in Lincoln green: 
Two who bear lance, and two who lead, 
By loosen'd rein, a saddled steed : 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



147 



Each onward held his headlong course, 
And by Fitz-James rein'd up his horse,— 
With wonder view'd the bloody spot — 
— "Exclaim not, gallants ! question not. — 
You, Herbert and Luffness, alight, 
And bind the wounds of yonder knight ; 
Let the gray palfrey bear his weight, 
We destined for a fairer freight, 
And bring him on to Stirling straight : 
I will before at better speed, 
To seek fresh horse and fitting weed. 
The sun rides high ;— I must be boune,* 
To see the archer-game at noon : 
But lightly Bayard clears the lea,— 
De Vaux and Herries, follow me. 

XVIII. 

"Stand, Bayard, stand!"— the steed 

obey'd, 
With arching neck and bending head, 
And glancing eye and quivering ear, 
As if he loved his lord to hear. 
No foot Fitz-James in stirrup staid, 
No grasp upon the saddle laid, 
But wreath'd his left hand in the mane, 
And lightly bounded from the plain, 
Turn'd on the horse his armed heel, 
And stirr'd his courage with the steel. 
Bounded the fiery steed in air, 
The rider sate erect and fair, 
Then like a bolt from steel crossbow 
Forth launch' d, along the plain they go. 
They dash'd that rapid torrent through, 
And up Carhonie's hill they flew ; 
Still at the gallop prick d the Knight, 
His merry-men follow'd as they might. 
Along thy banks, swift Teith ! they ride, 
And in the race they mock'd thy tide ; 
Torry and Lendrick now are past, 
And Deanstown lies behind them cast : 
They rise, the banner' d towers of Doune, 
They sink in distant woodland soon ; 
Blair-Drummond sees the hoof strike fire, 
They sweep like breeze through Ochter- 

tyre ; 
They mark just glance and disappear' 
The lofty brow of ancient Kier ; 
They bathe their courser's sweltering sides, 
Dark Forth ! amid thy sluggish tides, 
And on the opposing shore take ground, 
With plash, with scramble, and with 

bound. 
Right-hand they leave thy cliffs, Craig- 

Forth ! 
And soon the bulwark of the North, 



* Boune, prepared. 



Gray Stirling, with her towers and town, 
Upon their fleet career look'd down. 

XIX. 

As up the flinty path they strain'd 
Sudden his steed the leader rein'd ; 
A signal to his squire he flung, 
Who instant to his stirrup sprung :— 
"Seest thou, De Vaux, yon woodsman gray, 
Who town-ward holds the rocky way, 
Of stature tall and poor array ? 
Mark'st thou the firm, yet active stride, 
With which he scales the mountain-side ? 
Know'st thou from whence he comes, or 

whom?" — 
" No, by my word ; — a 'burly groom 
He seems, who in the field or chase 
A baron's train would nobly grace." — 
" Out, out, De Vaux ! can fear supply, 
And jealousy, no sharper eye ? 
Afar, ere to the hill he drew, 
That stately form and step I knew ; 
Like form in Scotland is not seen, 
Treads not such step on Scottish green. 
'Tis James of Douglas, by Saint Serle ! 
The uncle of the banish'd Earl. 
Away, away, to court, to show 
The near approach of dreaded foe : 
The King must stand upon his guard : 
Douglas and he must meet prepared." 
Then right-hand wheel'd their steeds, -and 

straight, 
They won the castle's postern gate. 

XX. 

The Douglas, who had bent his way 

From Cambus-Kenneth's abbey gray, 

Now, as he climb' d the rocky shelf, 

Held sad communion with himself ! — 

" Yes, all is true my fears could frame : 

A prisoner lies the noble Graeme, 

And fiery Roderick soon will feel 

The vengeance of the royal steel . 

I, only I, can ward their fate, — 

God grant the ransom come not late ! 

The Abbess hath her promise given, 

My child shall be the bride of Heaven ; — 

— Be pardon'd one repining tear ! 

For He, who gave her, knows how dear, 

How excellent ! but that is by, 

And now my business is — to die. 

— Ye towers ! within whose circuit dread 

A Douglas by his sovereign bled ; 

And thou, O sad and fatal mound !* 

That oft hast heard the death-axe sound, 



* A mound on the N.E. of Stirling Castle, 
where State criminals were executed. 



148 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As on the noblest of the land 

Fell the Stena headsman's bloody hand, — 

The dungeon, block, and nameless tomb 

Prepare—for Douglas seeks his doom ! 

— But hark ! what blithe and jolly peal 

Makes the Franciscan steeple reel? 

And see ! upon the crowded street, 

In motley groups what masquers meet ! 

Banner and pageant, pipe and drum, 

And merry morrice-dancers come. 

I guess, by all this quaint array, 

The burghers hold their sports to-day.^S 

James will be there ; he loves such show, 

Where the good yeoman bends his bow, 

And the tough wrestler foils his foe, 

As well as where, in proud career, 

The high-born tilter shivers spear. 

I'll follow to the Castle-park, 

And play my prize ; — King James shall 

mark, 
If age has tamed these sinews stark, 
Whose force so oft, in happier days, 
His boyish wonder loved to praise." 

XXI. 

The Castle gates'were open flung, 

The quivering drawbridge rock'd and 

rung, 
And echo'd loud the flinty street 
Beneath the coursers' clattering feet, 
As slowly down the steep descent 
Fair Scotland's King and nobles went, 
While all along the crowded way 
Was jubilee and loud huzza. 
And ever James was bending low, 
To his white jennet's saddle-bow, 
Doffing his cap to city dame, 
Who smiled and blush'd for pride and 

shame. 
And well the simperer might be vain, — 
He chose the fairest of the train. 
Gravely he greets each city sire, 
Commends each pageant's quaint attire, 
Gives to the dancers thanks aloud, 
And smiles and nods upon the crowd, 
Who rend the heavens with their acclaims, 
"Long live the Commons' King, King 

James!" 
Behind the King throng'd peer and knight, 
And noble dame and damsel bright, 
Whose fiery steeds ill brook' d the stay 
Of the steep street and crowded way. 
— But in the train you might discern 
Dark lowering brow and visage stern ; 
There nobles mourn' d their pride re- 

strain'd, 
And the mean burgher's joys disdain'd ; 



And chiefs, who, hostage for their clan, 
Were each from home a banish'd man, 
There thought upon their own gray tower, 
Their waving woods, their feudal power, 
And deem'd themselves a shameful part 
Of pageant which they cursed in heart. 

XXII. 

Now, in the Castle-park, drew out 
Their chequer'd bands the joyous rout. 
There morricers, with bell at heel, 
And blade in hand, their mazes wheel ; 
But chief, beside the butts, there stand 
Bold Robin Hood* 6 and all his band, — 
Friar Tuck with quarterstaff and cowl, 
Old Scathelocke with his surly scowl, 
Maid Marion, fair as ivory bone, 
Scarlet, and Mutch, and Little John ; 
Their bugles challenge all that will, 
In archery to prove their skill. 
The Douglas bent a bow of might, — 
His first shaft centered in the white, 
And when in turn he shot again, 
His second split the first in twain. 
From the King's hand must Douglas take 
A silver dart, the archer's stake ; 
Fondly he watch'd, with watery eye, 
Some answering glance of sympathy, — 
No kind emotion made reply ! 
Indifferent as to archer wight, 
The monarch gave the arrow bright. 

XXIII. 

Now, clear the ring ! for, hand to hand, 
The manly wrestlers take their stand. 
Two o'er the rest superior rose, 
And proud demanded mightier foes, 
Nor call'd in vain ; for Douglas came. 
— For life is Hugh of Larbert lame ; 
Scarce better John of Alloa's fare, 
Whom senseless home his comrades bear. 
Prize of the wrestling match, the King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring, 47 
While coldly glanced his eye of blue, 
As frozen drop of wintry dew. 
Douglas would speak, but in his breast 
His struggling soul his words suppress'd ; 
Indignant then he turn'd him where 
Their arms the brawny yeomen bare, 
To hurl the massive bar in air. 
When each his utmost strength had 

shown, 
The Douglas rent an earth-fast stone 
From its deep bed, then heaved it high, 
And sent the fragment through the sky, 
A rood beyond the farthest mark ;— 
And still in Stirling's royal park, 




The fatal sign of fire and sword 

Held forth, and spoke the appointed word. 

Lady of the Lake. 



7 HE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



149 



The gray-hair'd sires, who know the past, 
To strangers point the Douglas-cast, 
And moralize on Jhe decay 
Of Scottish strength in modern day. 

XXIV. 

The vale with loud applauses rang, 
The Ladies' Rock sent back the clang. 
The King, with look unmoved, bestow'd 
A purse well fill'd with pieces broad. 
Indignantsmiled the Douglas proud, 
And threw the gold among the crowd, 
Who now, with anxious wonder, scan, 
And sharper glance, the dark gray man ; 
Till whispers rose among the throng, 
That' heart so free, and hand so strong, 
Must to the Douglas blood belong ; 
The old men mark'd, and shook the head, 
To see his hair with silver spread, 
And wink'd aside, and told each son, 
Of feats upon the English done, 
Ere Douglas of the stalwart hand 
Was exiled from his native land. 
The women praised his stately form, 
Though wreck' d by many a winter's storm ! 
The youth with awe and wonder saw 
His strength surpassing Nature's law. 
Thus judged, as is their wont, the crowd, 
Till murmur rose to clamours loud. 
But not a glance from that proud ring 
Of peers who circled round the King, 
With Douglas held communion kind, 
Or call'd the banish'd man to mind ; 
No, not from those who, at the chase, 
Once held his side the honour'd place, 
Begirt his board, and, in the field, 
Found safety underneath his shield ; 
For he, whom royal eyes disown, 
When was his form to courtiers known ! 

XXV. 

The Monarch saw the gambols flag, 
And bade let loose a gallant stag, 
Whose pride, the holiday to crown, 
Two favourite greyhounds should pull 

down, 
That venison free, and Bordeaux wine, 
Might serve the archery to dine. 
But Lufra, — whom from Douglas' side 
Nor bribe nor threat could e'er divide, 
The fleetest hound in all the North,— 
Brave Lufra saw, and darted forth. 
She left the royal hounds mid-way, 
And dashing on the antler' d prey, 
Sunk her sharp muzzle in his flank, 
And deep the flowing life-blood drank. 
The King's stout huntsman saw the sport 
By strange intruder broken short, 



Came up, and with his leash unbound, 

In anger struck the noble hound. 

— The Douglas had endured, that morn, 

The King's cold look, the nobles' scorn, 

And last, and worst to spirit proud, 

Had borne the pity of the crowd ; 

But Lufra had been fondly bred, 

To share his board, to watch his bed, 

And oft would Ellen Lufra's neck 

In maiden glee with garlands deck ; 

They were such playmates, that with name 

Of Lufra, Ellen's image came. 

His stifled wrath is brimming high, 

In darken'd brow and flashing eye : 

As waves before the bark divide, 

The crowd gave way before his stride ; 

Needs but a buffet and no more, 

The groom lies senseless in his gore. 

Such blow no other hand could deal, 

Though gauntleted in glove of steel. 

XXVI. 

Then clamour' d loud the royal train, 
And brandish'd swords and staves amain. 
But stern the Baron's warning — " Back ! 
Back, on your lives, ye menial pack ! 
Beware the Douglas. — Yes ! behold, 
King James ! the Douglas, doom'd of old, 
And vainly sought for near and far, 
A victim to atone the war, 
A willing victim, now attends, 
Nor craves thy grace but for his friends." — 
' ' Thus is my clemency repaid ? 
Presumptuous Lord ! " the monarch said ; 
" Of thy misproud ambitious clan, 
Thou, James of Bothwell, wert the man, 
The only man, in whom a foe 
My woman-mercy would not know : 
But shall a Monarch's presence brook 
Injurious blow, and haughty look? — 
What ho ! the Captain of our Guard ! 
Give the offender fitting ward, — 
Break off the sports ! " — for tumult rose, 
And yeomen 'gan to bend their bows, — 
"Break off the sports!" he said, and 

frown'd, 
' ' And bid our horsemen clear the ground. ! 

XXVII. 

Then uproar wild and misarray 
Marr'd the fair form of festal day. 
The horsemen prick'd among the crowd, 
Repell'd by threats and insult loud ; 
To earth are borne the old and weak, 
The timorous fly, the women shriek ; 
With flint, with shaft, with staff, with bar, 
The hardier urge tumultuous war. 



i5o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



At once round Douglas darkly sweep 
The royal spears in circle deep, 
And slowly scale the pathway steep ; 
While on the rear in thunder pour 
The rabble with disorder'd roar. 
"With grief the noble Douglas saw 
The Commons rise against the law, 
And to the leading soldier said, — 
" Sir John of Hyndford ! 'twas my blade 
That knighthood on thy shoulder laid ; 
For that good deed, permit me then 
A word with these misguided men. 

XXVIII. 

" Hear, gentle friends ! ere yet for me 

Ye break the bands of fealty. 

My life, my honour, and my cause, 

I tender free to Scotland's laws. 

Are these so weak as must require 

The aid of your misguided ire ! 

Or, if I suffer causeless wrong, 

Is then my selfish rage so strong, 

My sense of public weal so low, 

That, for mean vengeance on a foe, 

Those cords of love I should unbind, 

Which knit my country and my kind ? 

Oh no ! Believe, in yonder tower 

It will not soothe my captive hour, 

To know those spears our foes should 

dread, 
For me in kindred gore are red ; 
To know, in fruitless brawl begun, 
For me, that mother wails her son ; 
For me, that widow's mate expires ; 
For me, that orphans weep their sires ; 
That patriots mourn insulted laws ; 
And curse the Douglas for the cause. 
O let your patience ward such ill, 
And keep your right to love me still !" 

XXIX. 

The crowd's wild fury sunk again 
In tears, as tempests melt in rain. 
With lifted hands and eyes, they pray'd 
For blessings on his generous head, 
Who for his country felt alone, 
And prized her blood beyond his own. 
Old men, upon the verge of life, 
Bless'd him who staid the civil strife ; 
And mothers held their babes on high, 
The self-devoted Chief to spy, 
Triumphant over wrongs and ire, 
To whom the prattlers owed a sire : 
Even the rough soldier's heart was moved ; 
As if behind some bier beloved, 
With trailing arms and drooping head, 
The Douglas up the hill he led, 



And at the Castle's battled verge 

With sighs resign'd his honour'd charge. 

XXX. 

The offended Monarch rode apart, 
With bitter thought and swelling heart, 
And would not now vouchsafe again 
Through Stirling streets to lead his train. 
' ' O Lennox, who would wish to rule 
This changeling crowd, this common fool? 
Hearst thou," hesaid, "the loud acclaim, 
With which they shout the Douglas' name ! 
With like acclaim, the vulgar throat 
Strain'd for King James their morning 

note ; 
With like acclaim they hail'd the day 
When first I broke the Douglas' sway ; 
And like acclaim would Douglas greet, 
If he could hurl me from my seat. 
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, 
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain ! 
Vain as the leaf upon the stream, 
And fickle as a changeful dream ; 
Fantastic as a woman's mood, 
And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood. 
Thou many-headed monster-thing, 

who would wish to be thy king ! 

XXXI. 

" But soft ! what messenger of speed 
Spurs hitherward his panting steed? 

1 guess his cognizance afar — 

What from our cousin, John of Mar?" — 
" He prays, my liege, your sports keep 
«s& bound 
Within the safe and guarded ground : 
For some foul purpose yet unknown, — J 
Most sure for evil to the throne, — 
The outlaw' d Chieftain, Roderick Dhu, 
Has summon'd his rebellious crew ; 
'Tis said, in James of Bothwell's aid 
These loose banditti stand array'd. 
The Earl of Mar, this morn, from Doune, 
To break their muster march'd, and soon 
Your grace will hear of battle fought ; 
But earnestly the Earl besought, 
Till for such danger he provide, 
With scanty train you will not ride." — 

XXXII. 

"Thou warn'st me I have done amiss, — 
I should have earlier look'd to this : 
I lost it in this bustling day. 
— Retrace with speed thy former way ; 
Spare not for spoiling of thy steed, 
The best of mine shall be thy meed. 
Say to our faithful Lord of Mar, 
We do forbid the intended war : 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



I5i 



Roderick, this morn, in single fight, 
Was made our prisoner by a knight ; 
And Douglas hath himself and cause 
Submitted to our kingdom's laws. 
The tidings of their leaders lost 
Will soon dissolve the mountain host, 
Nor would we that the vulgar feel, 
For their Chief's crimes, avenging steel. 
Bear Mar our message, Braco : fly ! " — 
He turn'd his steed, — " My liege, I hie. — 
Yet, ere I cross this lily lawn, 
I fear the broadswords will be drawn." 
The turf the flying courser spurn'd, 
And to his towers the King return'd. 

XXXIII. 

Ill with King James's mood that day 
Suited gay feast and minstrel lay ; 
Soon were dismiss' d the courtly throng, 
And soon cut short the festal song. 
Nor less upon the sadden'd town 
The evening sunk in sorrow down. 
The burghers spoke of civil jar, 
Of rumour'd feuds and mountain war, 
Of Moray, Mar, and Roderick Dhu, 
All up in arms : — the Douglas too, 
They mourn'd him pent within the hold, 
' ' Where stout Earl William was of old "* — 
And there his word the speaker staid, 
And finger on his lip he laid, 
Or pointed to his dagger blade. 
But jaded horsemen, from the west, 
At evening to the Castle press'd ; 
And busy talkers said they bore 
Tidings of fight on Katrine's shore ; 
At noon the deadly fray begun, 
And lasted till the set of sun. 
Thus giddy rumour shook the town, 
Till closed the Night her pennons brown. 



CANTO SIXTH. 

THE GUARD-ROOM. 



The sun, awakening, through the smoky 
air 
Of the dark city casts a sullen glance, 
Rousing each caitiff to his task of care, 

Of sinful man the sad inheritance ; 
Summoning revellers from the lagging 
dance, 
Scaring the prowling robber to his den ; 



* He had been stabbed by James II. in 
Stirling Castle. 



Gilding on battled tower the warder's lance. 
And warning student pale to leave his 

pen, 
And yield his drowsy eyes to the kind 

nurse of men. 

What various scenes, and, O ! what scenes 
of woe, 
Are witness'd by that red and struggling 
beam ! 
The fever'd patient, from his pallet low, 
Through crowded hospital beholds it 
stream ; 
The ruin'd maiden trembles at its gleam, 
The debtor wakes to thought of gyve 
and jail, 
The love-lorn wretch starts from torment- 
ing dream ; 
The wakeful mother, by the glimmering 
pale, 
Trims her sick infant's couch, and soothes 
his feeble wail. 

11. 

At dawn the towers of Stirling rang 
With soldier-step and weapon-clang, 
While drums, with rolling note, foretell 
Relief to weary sentinel. 
Through narrow loop and casement barr'd, 
The sunbeams sought the Court of Guard, 
And, struggling with the smoky air, 
Deaden'd the torches' yellow glare. 
In comfortless alliance shone 
The lights through arch of blacken'd stone, 
And show'd wild shapes in garb of war, 
Faces deform'd with beard and scar, 
All haggard from the midnight watch, 
And fever'd with the stern debauch ; 
For the oak table's massive board, 
Flooded with wine, with fragments stored, 
And beakers drain'd, and cups o'erthrown, 
Show'd in what sport the night had flown. 
Some, weary, snored on floor and bench, 
Some labour'd still their thirst to quench ; 
Some, chill'd with watching, spread their 
•' hands 

O'er the huge chimney's dying brands, 
While round them, or beside them flung, 
At every step their harness rung. 



These drew not for their fields the sword, 
Like tenants of a feudal lord, 
Nor own'd the patriarchal claim 
Of chieftain in their leader's name ; 
Adventurers they, from far who roved, 
To live by battle which they loved. 48 



152 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



There the Italian's clouded face; 
The swarthy Spaniard's there you trace ; 
The mountain-loving Switzer there 
More freely breathed in mountain air ; 
The Fleming there despised the soil, 
That paid so ill the labourer's toil ; 
Their rolls show'd French and German 

name ; 
And merry England's exiles came, 
To share, with ill conceal' d disdain, 
Of Scotland's pay the scanty gain. 
All brave in arms, well train'd to wield 
The heavy halberd, brand, and shield ; 
In camps licentious, wild, and bold ; 
In pillage fierce and uncontroll'd ; 
And now, by holytide and feast, 
From rules of discipline released. 

IV. 

They held debate of bloody fray, 
Fought 'twixt Loch Katrine and Achray, 
Fierce was their speech, and, 'mid their 

words, 
Their hands oft grappled to their swords ; 
Nor sunk their tone to spare the ear 
Of wounded comrades groaning near, 
Whose mangled limbs, and bodies gored, 
Bore token of the mountain sword, 
Though, neighbouring to the Court of 

Guard, 
Their prayers and feverish wails were heard ! 
Sad burden to the ruffian joke, 
And savage oath by fury spoke ! — 
At length up-started John of Brent, 
A yeoman from the banks of Trent ; 
A stranger to respect or fear, 
In peace a chaser of the deer, 
In host a hardy mutineer, 
But still the boldest of the crew, 
When deed of danger was to do. 
He grieved, that day, their games cut short, 
And marr'ri the dicer's brawling sport, 
And shouted loud, " Renew the bowl! 
And, while a merry catch I troll, 
Let each the buxom chorus bear, 
Like brethren ol the brand and spear." 



SOLDIER S SONG. 

Our vicar still preaches that Peter and 

Poule 
Laid a swinging long curse on the bonny 

brown bowl, 
That there's wrath and despair in the 

bonny black-jack, 
And the seven deadly sins in a flagon of 

sack ; 



Yet whoop, Barnaby ! off with thy liquor, 
Drink upsees * out, and a fig for the vicar 1 

Our vicar he calls it damnation to sip 
The ripe ruddy dew of a woman's dear lip, 
Says, that Beelzebub lurks in her kerchief 

so sly, 
And Apollyon shoots darts from her merry 

black eye. 
Yet whoop, Jack ! kiss Gillian the quicker, 
Till she bloom like a rose, and a fig for 

the vicar ! 

Our vicar thus preaches — and why should 

he not ? 
For the dues of his cure are the placket 

and pot ; 
And 'tis right of his office poor laymen to 

lurch, 
Who infringe the domains of our good 

Mother Church. 
Yet whoop, bully-boys! off with your 

liquor, 
Sweet Marjories the word, and a fig for 

the vicar ! 

VI. 

The warder's challenge, heard without, 

Staid in mid-roar the merry shout. 

A soldier to the portal went, — 

" Here is old Bertram, sirs, of Ghent ; 

And, — beat for jubilee the drum ! 

A maid and minstrel with him come." 

Bertram, a Fleming, gray and scarr'd. 

Was entering now the Court of Guard, 

A harper with him, and in plaid 

All muffled close, a mountain maid, 

Who backward shrunk to 'scape the view 

Of the loose scene and boisterous crew. 

"What news?" they roar'd : — "I only 

know, 
From noon till eve we fought with foe, 
As wild and as untameable 
As the rude mountains where they dwell ; 
On both sides store of blood is lost, 
Nor much success can either boast." — 
" But whence thy captives, friend? such 

spoil 
As theirs must needs reward thy toil. 
Old dost thou wax, and wars grow sharp ; 
Thou now hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 
The leader of a juggler band." ■» 



" No, comrade ; — no such fortune mine. 
After the fight these sought our line, 

* A Dutch health, or drinking word. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



153 



That aged harper and the girl, 
And, having audience of the Earl, 
Mar bade I should purvey them steed, 
And bring them hitherward with speed. 
Forbear your mirth and rude alarm, 
Nor none shall do them shame or harm." — 
" Hear ye his boast? " cried John of Brent, 
Ever to strife and jangling bent ; 
" Shall he strike doe beside our lodge, 
And yet the jealous niggard grudge 
To pay the forester his fee ? 
I'll have my share, howe'er it be, 
Despite of Moray, Mar, or thee." 
Bertram his forward step withstood ; 
And, burning with his vengeful mood, 
Old Allan, though unfit for strife, 
Laid hand upon his dagger-knife ; 
But Ellen boldly stepp'd between, 
And dropp'd at once the tartan screen : — 
So, from his morning cloud, appears 
The sun of May, through summer tears. 
The savage soldiery, amazed, 
As on descended angel gazed ; 
Even hardy Brent, abash'd and tamed, ' 
Stood half admiring, half ashamed. 

VIII. 

Boldly she spoke,—" Soldiers, attend ! 
My father was the soldier's friend ; 
Cheer'd him in camps, in marches led, 
And with him in the battle bled. 
Not from the valiant, or the strong, 
Should exile's daughter suffer wrong." — 
Answer'd De Brent, most forward still 
In every feat or good or ill, — 
" I shame me of the part I play'd : 
And thou an outlaw's child, poor maid! 
An outlaw I by forest laws, 
And merry Need wood knows the cause. 
■ Poor Rose,— if Rose be living now," — 
He wiped his iron eye and brow, — 
"Must bear such age, I think, as thou.— 
Hear ye, my mates ; I go to call 
The Captain of our watch to hall : 
There lies my halberd on the floor ; 
And he that steps my halberd o'er, 
To do the maid injurious part, 
My shaft shall quiver in his heart !— 
Beware loose speech, or jesting rough : — 
Ye all know John de Brent. Enough." 

IX. 

Their Captain came, a gallant young, — 
(Of Tullibardine's house he sprung,) 
Nor wore he yet the spurs of knight ; 
Gay was his mien, his humour light, 
And, though by courtesy controll'd, 
Forward his speech, his bearing bold. 



The high-born maiden ill could brook 
The scanning of his curious look 
And dauntless eye ; — and yet, in sooth, 
Young Lewis was a generous youth ; 
But Ellen's lovely face and mien, 
111 suited to the garb and scene, 
Might lightly bear construction strange, 
And give loose fancy scope to range. 
" Welcome to Stirling towers, fair maid! 
Come ye to seek a champion's aid, 
On palfrey white, with harper hoar, 
Like errant damosel of yore ? 
Does thy high quest a knight require, 
Or may the venture suit a squire ? " 
Her dark eye flash'd ; — she paused and 

sigh'd, — 
" O what have I to do with pride ! — 
Through scenes of sorrow, shame, and 

strife, 
A suppliant for a father's life, 
I crave an audience of the King. 
Behold, to back my suit, a ring, 
The royal pledge of grateful claims, 
Given by the Monarch to Fitz-James." 

x. 

The signet-ring young Lewis took, 

With deep respect and alter'd look ; 

And said, — "This ring our duties own ; 

And pardon, if to worth unknown, 

In semblance mean obscurely veil'd, 

Lady, in aught my folly fail'd. 

Soon as the day flings wide his gates, 

The King shall know what suitor waits. 

Please you, meanwhile, in fitting bower 

Repose you till his waking hour ; 

Female attendance shall obey 

Your hest, for service or array. 

Permit I marshal you the way." 

But, ere she follow'd, with the grace 

And open bounty of her race, 

She bade her slender purse be shared 

Among the soldiers of the guard. 

The rest with thanks their guerdon took ; 

But Brent, with shy and awkward look, 

On the reluctant maiden's hold 

Forced bluntly back the proffer'd gold ; — 

" Forgive a haughty English heart, 

And O forget its ruder part ! 

The vacant purse shall be my share, 

Which in my barret-cap I'll bear, 

Perchance, in jeopardy of war, 

Where gayer crests may keep afar." 

With thanks— 'twas all she could— the 

maid 
His rugged courtesy repaid. 



154 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When Ellen forth with Lewis went, 
Allan made suit to John of Brent : — 
" My lady safe, let your grace 
Give me to see my master's face ! 
His minstrel I, — to share his doom 
Bound from the cradle to the tomb. 
Tenth in descent, since first my sires 
Waked for his noble house their lyres, 
Nor one of all the race was known 
But prized its weal above their own. 
With the Chiefs birth begins our care ; 
Our harp must soothe the infant heir, 
Teach the youth tales of fight, and grace 
His earliest feat of field or chase ; 
In peace, in war, our rank we keep, 
We cheer his board, we soothe his sleep, 
Nor leave him till we pour our verse — 
A doleful tribute ! — o'er his hearse. 
Then let me share his captive lot ; 
It is my right — deny it not ! " — 
" Little we reck," said John of Brent, 
" We Southern men, of long descent ; 
Nor wot we how a name — a word — 
Makes clansmen vassals to a lord: 
Yet kind my noble landlord's part, — 
God bless the house of Beaudesert ! 
And, but I loved to drive the deer, 
More than to guide the labouring steer, 
I had not dwelt an outcast here. 
Come, good old Minstrel, follow me ; 
Thy Lord and Chieftain shalt thou see." 



Then, from a rusted iron hook, 
A bunch of ponderous keys he took, 
Lighted a torch, and Allan led 
Through grated arch and passage dread. 
Portals they pass'd, where, deep within, 
Spoke prisoner's moan, and fetters' din ; 
Through rugged vaults, where, loosely 

stored, 
Lay wheel, and axe, and headsman's 

sword, 
And many an hideous engine grim, 
For wrenching joint, and crushing limb, 
By artist form'd, who deem'd it shame 
And sin to give their work a name. 
They halted at a low-brow'd porch, 
And Brent to Allan gave the torch, 
While bolt and chain he backward roll'd, 
And made the bar unhasp its hold. 
They enter'd :— 'twas a prison-room 
Of stern security and gloom, 
Yet not a dungeon; for the day 
Through lofty gratings found its way, 



And rude and antique garniture 
Deck'd the sad walls and oaken floor ; 
Such as the rugged days of old 
Deem'd fit for captive noble's hold. 
"Here," said De Brent, "thou mayst 

remain 
Till the Leech visit him again. 
Strict is his charge, the warders tell, 
To tend the noble prisoner well." 
Retiring then, the bolt he drew, 
And the lock's murmurs growl'd anew. 
Roused at the sound, from lowly bed 
A captive feebly raised his head ; 
The wondering Minstrel look'd, and 

knew — 
Not his dear lord, but Roderick Dhu ! 
For, come from where Clan-Alpine fought, 
They, erring, deem'd the Chief he sought. 

XIII. 

As the tall ship, whose lofty prore 
Shall never stem the billows more, 
Deserted by her gallant band, 
Amid the breakers lies astrand, — 
So, on his couch, lay Roderick Dhu ! 
And oft his fever'd limbs he threw 
In toss abrupt, as when her sides 
Lie rocking in the advancing tides, 
That shake her frame with ceaseless beat, 
Yet cannot heave her from her seat ; — 
O ! how unlike her course at sea ! 
Or his free step on hill and lea ! — 
Soon as the Minstrel he could scan, 
" What of thy lady ? — of my clan ? — 
My mother?— Douglas? — tell me all ! . 
Have they been ruin'd in my fall ? 
Ah, yes ! or wherefore art thou here? 
Yet speak, — speak boldly, — donotfear." — 
(For Allan, who his mood well knew, 
Was choked with grief and terror too.) — 
"Who fought — who fled?— Old man, be 

brief ; — 
Some might — for they had lost their Chief. 
Who basely live ? — who bravely died ? " — 
" O calm thee, Chief!" the Minstrel cried, 
"Ellen is safe!" — "For that, thank 

Heaven ! " — 
" And hopes are for the Douglas given ;— 
The Lady Margaret, too, is well ; 
And, for thy clan, — on field or fell, 
Has never harp of minstrel told, 
Of combat fought so true and bold. 
Thy stately Pine is yet unbent, 
Though many a goodly bough is rent." 

XIV. 

The Chieftain rear'd his form on high, 
And fever's fire was in his eye ; 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



*55 



But ghastly, pale, and livid streaks 
Chequer'd his swarthy brow and cheeks. 
— "Hark, Minstrel! I have heard thee 

play, 
With measure bold, on festal day, 
In yon lone isle, . . . again where ne'er 
Shall harper play, or warrior hear ! . . . 
That stirring air that peals on high, 
O'er Derm id's race our victory. — 
Strike it ! 5° — and then, (for well thou 

canst,) 
Free from thy minstrel-spirit glanced, 
Fling me the picture of the fight, 
When met my clan the Saxon might. 
I'll listen, till my fancy hears 
The clang of swords, the crash of spears ! 
These grates, these walls, shall vanish 

then, 
For the fair field of fighting men, 
And my free spirit burst away, 
As if it soar d from battle fray." 
The trembling Bard with awe obey'd, — 
Slow on the harp his hand he laid ; 
But soon remembrance of the sight 
He witness'd from the mountain's height, 
With what old Bertram told at night, 
Awaken'd the full power of song, 
And bore him in career along ; — 
As shallop launch'd on river's tide, 
That slow and fearful leaves the side, 
But, when it feels the middle stream, 
Drives downward swiftas lightning's beam. 

xv. 

BATTLE OF BEAL' AN DUINE.S 1 

' ' The Minstrel came once more to view 
The eastern ridge of Benvenue, 
For, ere he parted, he would say 
Farewell to lovely Loch Achray — 
Where shall he find, in foreign land, 
So lone a lake, so sweet a strand ! 
There is no breeze upon the fern, 

Nor ripple on the lake, 
Upon her eyry nods the erne, 

The deer has sought the brake ; 
The small birds will not sing aloud, 

The springing trout lies still, 
So darkly glooms yon thunder cloud, 
That swathes, as with a purple shroud, 

Benledi's distant hill. 
Is it the thunder's solemn sound 
That mutters deep and dread, 
Or echoes from the groaning ground 
The warrior's measured tread ? 



Is it the lightning's quivering glance 
That on the thicket streams, 

Or do they flash on spear and lance 
The sun's retiring beams ? 
— I see the dagger-crest of Mar, 
I see the Moray's silver star, 
Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, 
That up the lake comes winding far ! 
To hero bound for battle-strife, 

Or bard of martial lay, 
'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, 

One glance at their array ! 



"Their light-arm'd archers far and near 

Survey'd the tangled ground, 
Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, 

A twilight forest frown'd, 
Their barbed horsemen, in the rear, 

The stern battalia crown'd. 
No cymbal clash'd, no clarion rang, 

Still were the pipe and drum ; 
Save heavy tread, and armour's clang, 

The sullen march was dumb. 
There breathed no wind their crests to 
shake, 
Or wave their flags abroad ; 
Scarce the frail aspen seem'd to quake, 

That shadovv'd o'er their road. 
Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, 

Can rouse no lurking foe, 
Nor spy a trace of living thing, 

Save when they stirr'd the roe ; 
The host moves like a deep-sea wave, 
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, 
High-swelling, dark, and slow. 
The lake is pass'd, and now they gain 
A narrow and a broken plain, 
Before the Trosach's rugged jaws; 
And here the horse and spearmen pause, 
While to explore the dangerous glen, 
Dive through the pass the archer-men. 

XVII. 

"At once there rose so wild a yell 
Within that dark and narrow dell, 
As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, 
Had peal'd the banner-cry of hell ! 
Forth from the pass in tumult driven, 
Like chaff before the wind of heaven, 

The archery appear, 
For life ! for life ! their plight they ply — 
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, 
And plaids and bonnets waving high, 
And broadswords flashing to the sky, 
Are maddening in the rear. 



i 5 6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Onward they drive, In dreadful race, 

Pursuers and pursued ; 
Before that tide of flight and chase, 
How shall it keep its rooted place, 

The spearmen's twilight wood ?— 
'Down, down,' cried Mar, 'your lances 
down ! 

Bear back both friend and foe ! ' — 
Like reeds before the tempest's frown, 
That serried grove of lances brown 

At once lay levell'd low ; 
And closely shouldering side to side, 
The bristling ranks the onset bide. — 
' We'll quell the savage mountaineer, 

As their Tinchel* cows the game! 
They come as fleet as forest deer, 

We'll drive them back as tame.' — 

XVIII. 

" Bearing before them, in their course, 
The relics of the archer force, 
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, 
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. 
Above the tide, each broadsword bright 
Was brandishing like beam of light, 

Each targe was dark below ; 
And with the ocean's mighty swing, 
When heaving to the tempest's wing, 
They hurl'd them on the foe. 
I heard the lance's shivering crash, 
As when the whirlwind rends the ash, 
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, 
As if an hundred anvils rang ! 

But Moray wheel'd his rearward rank 
, Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank, 
— 'My banner-man, advance ! 
I see,' he cried, ' their column shake. — 
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake 

Upon them with the lance ! ' — 
The horsemen dash'd among the rout, 

As deer break through the broom ; 
Their steeds are stout, their swords are 
out, 
They soon make lightsome room. 
Clan- Alpine's best are backward borne— - 

Where, where was Roderick then ! 
One blast upon his bugle-horn 

Were worth a thousand men ! 
And refluent through the pass of fear 

The battle's tide was pour'd ; 
Vanish'd the Saxon's struggling spear, 
Vanish'd the mountain-sword. 



* A circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding 
a great space, and gradually narrowing, brought 
immense quantities of deer together, which 
usually made desperate efforts to break through 
the Tinchel, 



As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, 

Receives her roaring linn, 
As the dark caverns of the deep 
Suck the wild whirlpool in, 
So did the deep and darksome pass 
Devour the battle's mingled mass : 
None linger now upon the plain, 
Save those who ne'er shall fight again. 



" Now westward rolls the battle's din, 
That deep and doubling pass within, 
— Minstrel, away, the work of fate 
Is bearing on : its issue wait, 
Where the rude Trosach's dread defile 
Opens on Katrine's lake and isle. — 
Gray Benvenue I soon repass'd, 
Loch Katrine lay beneath me cast. 
The sun is set ; — the clouds are met, 

The lowering scowl of heaven 
An inky view of vivid blue 

To the deep lake has given ; 
Strange gusts of wind from mountain-glen 
Swept o'er the lake, then sunk agen, 
I heeded not the eddying surge, 
Mine eye but saw the Trosach's gorge, 
Mine ear but heard the sullen sound, 
Which like an earthquake shook the 

ground, 
And spoke the stern and desperate strife 
That parts not but with parting life, 
Seeming, to minstrel ear, to toll 
The dirge of many a passing soul. 
Nearer it comes — the dim-wood glen 
The martial flood disgorged agen, 

But not in mingled tide ; 
The plaided warriors of the North 
High on the mountain thunder forth 

And overhang its side; 
.While by the lake below appears 
The dark'ning cloud of Saxon spears. 
At weary bay each shatter'd band, 
Eyeing their foemen, sternly stand ; 
Their banners stream like tatter'd sail, 
That flings its fragments to the gale, 
And broken arms and disarray 
Mark'd the fell havoc of the day. 

XX. 

"Viewing th,e mountain's ridge askance, 
The Saxon stood in sullen trance, 
Till Moray pointed with his lance, 

And cried — ' Behold yon isle ! — 
See ! none are left to guard its strand, 
But women weak, that wring the hand ; 
'Tis there of yore the robber band 

Their booty wont to pile ; 



My purse, with bonnet pieces store, 
To him will swim a bow-shot o'er. 
And loose a shallop from the shore. 
Lightly we'll tame the war-wolf then, 
Lords of his mate, and brood, and den.' 
Forth from the ranks a spearman sprung, 
On earth his casque and corslet rung, 

He plunged him in the wave : — 
AU saw the deed— the purpose knew, 
And to their clamours Benvenue 

A mingled echo gave ; 
The Saxons shout, their mate to cheer, 
The helpless females scream for fear, 
And yells for rage the mountaineer. 
'Twas then, as by the outcry riven, 
Pour'd down at once the lowering heaven ; 
A whirlwind swept Loch Katrine's breast, 
Her billows rear'd their snowy crest. 
Well for the swimmer swell'd they high, 
To mar the Highland marksman's eye; 
For round him shower'd, 'mid rain and 

hail, 
The vengeful arrows of the Gael. — 
In vain — He nears the isle — and lo ! 
His hand is on a shallop's bow. 
—Just then a flash of lightning came, 
It tinged the waves and strand with 

flame ! — 
I mark'd Duncraggan's widow'd dame, 
Behind an oak I saw her stand, 
A naked dirk gleam 'd in her hand : 
It darken'd, — but amid the moan 
Of waves, I heard a dying groan ; 
Another flash ! — the spearman floats 
A weltering corse beside the boats, 
And the stern matron o'er him stood, 
Her hand and dagger streaming blood. 

XXI. 

" ' Revenge ! revenge ! ' the Saxons cried, 
The Gaels' exulting shout replied. 
Despite the elemental rage, 
Again they hurried to engage ; 
But, ere they closed in desperate fight, 
Bloody with spurring came a knight, 
Sprung from his horse, and, from a crag, 
Waved 'twixt the hosts a milk-white flag. 
Clarion and trumpet by his side 
Rung forth a truce-note high and wide, 
While, in the Monarch's name, afar 
An herald's voice forbade the war, 
For Bothwell's lord, and Roderick bold, 
Were both, he said, in captive hold." 
— But here the lay made sudden stand ! — 
The harp escaped the Minstrel's hand ! — 
Oft had he stolen a glance, to spy 
How Roderick brook'd his minstrelsy: 



At first, the Chieftain, to the chime, 
With lifted hand kept feeble time ; 
That motion ceased,— yet feeling strong, 
Varied his look as changed the song ; 
At length, no more his deafen'd ear 
The minstrel melody can hear ; 
His face grows sharp, — his hands are 

clench'd, 
As if some pang his heart-strings wrench' d; 
Set are his teeth, his fading eye 
Is sternly fix'd on vacancy ; 
Thus motionless, and moanless, drew 
His parting breath, stout Roderick Dhu ! — 
Old Allan-Bane look'd on aghast, 
While grim and still his spirit pass'd : 
But when he saw that life was fled, 
He pour'd his wailing o'er the dead. 



LAMENT. 

"And art thou cold and lowly laid, 
Thy foeman's dread, thy people's aid, 
Breadalbane's boast, Clan- Alpine's shade I 
For thee shall none a requiem say? 
— For thee, — who loved the minstrel's lay, 
For thee, of Bothwell's house the stay, 
The shelter of her exiled line, 
E'en in this prison-house of thine, 
I'll wail for Alpine's honour'd Pine ! 
" What groans shall yonder valleys fill ! 
What shrieks of grief shall rend yon hill ! 
What tears of burning rage shall thrill, 
When mourns thy tribe thy battles done, 
Thy fall before the race was won, 
The sword ungirt ere set of sun ! 
There breathes not clansman of thy line, 
But would have given his life for thine. — 
O woe for Alpine's honour'd Pine ! — 
' ' Sad was thy lot on mortal stage ! — 
The captive thrush may brook the cage, 
The prison'd eagle dies for rage. 
Brave spirit, do not scorn my stra.'n ! 
And, when its notes awake again, 
Even she, so long beloved in vain, 
Shall with my harp her voice combine, 
And mix her woe and tears with mine, 
To wail Clan-Alpine's honour'd Pine." 

XXIII. 

Ellen, the while, with bursting heart, • 
Remain'd in lordly bower apart, 
Where play'd with many-colour'd gleams, 
Through storied pane the rising beams. 
In vain on gilded roof they fall, 
And lighten'd up a tapestried wall, 
And for her use a menial train 
A rich collation spread in vain. 



158 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The banquet proud, the chamber gay, 
Scarce drew one curious glance astray ; 
Or, if she look'd, 'twas but to say, 
With bettor omen dawn'd the day 
In that lone isle, where waved on high 
The dun-deer's hide for canopy ; 
Where oft her noble father shared 
The simple meal her care prepared, 
While Lufra, crouching by her side, 
Her station claim'd with jealous pride, 
And Douglas, bent on woodland game, 
Spoke of the chase to Malcolm Graeme, 
Whose answer, oft at random made, 
The wandering of his thoughts betray'd. — 
Those who such simple joys have known, 
Are taught to prize them when they're 

gone. 
But sudden, see, she lifts her head ! 
The window seeks with cautious tread. 
What distant music has the power 
To win her in this woeful hour ! ■ 
'Twas from a turret that o'erhung 
Her latticed bower, the strain was sung. 



LAY OF THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN. 
1 ' My hawk is tired of perch and hood, 
My idle greyhound loathes his food, 
My horse is weary of his stall, 
And I am sick of captive thrall. 
I wish I were, as I have been, 
Hunting the hart in forest green, 
With bended bowand bloodhound free, 
For that's the life is meet for me. 
I hate to learn the ebb of time, 
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, 
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, 
Inch after inch along the wall. 
The lark was wont my matins ring, 
The sable rook my vespers sing, 
These towers, although a king's they be,' 
Have not a hall of joy for me. 
No more at dawning morn I rise, 
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, 
Drive the fleet deer the forest through, 
And homeward wend with evening dew ; 
A blithesome welcome blithely meet, 
And lay my trophies at her feet, 
While fled the eve on wing of glee, — 
That life is lost to love and me ! " 

XXV. 

The heart-sick lay was hardly said, 
The list'ner had not turn'd her head, 
It trickled still, the starting tear, 
When light a footstep struck her ear, 
And Snowdoun's graceful knight was near. 



She turn'd the hastier, lest again 

The prisoner should renew his strain. — 

" O welcome, brave Fitz-James ! " she said * 

" How may an almost orphan maid 

Pay the deep debt " — " say not so ! 

To me no gratitude you owe. 

Not mine, alas ! the boon to give, 

And bid thy noble father live ; 

I can but be thy guide, sweet maid, 

With Scotland's king thy suit to aid. 

No tyrant he, though ire and pride 

May lay his better mood aside. 

Come, Ellen, come ! 'tis more than time, 

He holds his court at morning prime." 

With beating heart, and bosom wrung, 

As to a brother's arm she clung. 

Gently he dried the falling tear, 

And gently whisper'd hope and cheer ; 

Her faltering steps half led, half staid, 

Through gallery fair, and high arcade, 

Till, at his touch, its wings of pride 

A portal arch unfolded wide. 

XXVI. 

Within 'twas brilliant all and light, 
A thronging scene of figures bright ; 
It glow'd on Ellen's dazzled sight, 
As when the setting sun has given 
Ten thousand hues to summer even, 
And from their tissue, fancy frames 
Aerial knights and fairy dames. 
Still by Fitz-James her footing staid ; 
A few faint steps she forward made, 
Then slow her drooping head she raised, 
And fearful round the presence gazed 
For him she sought, who own'd this state, 
The dreaded prince whose will was fate. 
She gazed on many a princely port, 
Might well have ruled a royal court ; 
On many a splendid garb she gazed, 
Then turn'd bewilder'd and amazed, 
For all stood bare ; and, in the room, 
Fitz-James alone wore cap and plume. 
To him each lady's look was lent ; 
On him each courtier's eye was bent ; 
Midst furs and silks, and jewels sheen, 
He stood, in simple Lincoln green, 
The centre of the glittering ring, — 
And Snowdoun's Knight is Scotland's 
King. 52 

XXVII. 

As wreath of snow, on mountain-breast, 
Slides from the rock that gave it rest, 
Poor Ellen glided from her stay, 
And at the Monarch's feet she lay ; 
No word her choking voice commands, — 
She show'd the ring, she clasp' d her hands. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



159 



! not a moment could he brook, 

The generous prince, that suppliant look ! 
Gently he raised her ; and, the while, 
Check' d with a glance the circle's smile ; 
Graceful, but grave, her brow he kiss'd, 
And bade her terrors be dismiss'd : — 
"Yes, Fair; the wandering poor Fitz- 

James 
The fealty of Scotland claims. 
To him thy woes, thy wishes, bring ; 
He will redeem his signet ring. 
Ask nought for Douglas ; yester even, 
His prince and he have much forgiven. 
Wrong hath he had from slanderous 

tongue, 
I, from his rebel kinsmen, wrong. 
We would not, to the vulgar crowd, 
Yield what they craved with clamour loud ; 
Calmly we heard and judged his cause, 
Our council aided, and our laws. 

1 stanch'd thy father's death-feud stern, 
With stout De Vaux and Grey Glencaim ; 
And Bothwell's Lord henceforth we own 
The friend and bulwark of our Throne. 
But, lovely infidel, how now ? 

What clouds thy misbelieving brow? 
Lord James of Douglas, lend thine aid ; 
Thou must confirm this doubting maid." 

XXVIII. 

Then forth the noble Douglas sprung, 
And on his neck his daughter hung. 
The Monarch drank, that happy hour, 
The sweetest, holiest , draught of Power, — 
When it can say, with godlike voice, 
Arise, sad Virtue, and rejoice ! 
Yet would not James the general eye 
On Nature's raptures long should pry ; 
He stepp'd between — "Nay, Douglas, 

nay, 
Steal not my proselyte away ! 
The riddle 'tis my right to read, 
That brought this happy chance to speed. 
Yes, Ellen, when disguised I stray 
In life's more low but happier way, 
'Tis under name which veils my power, 
Nor falsely veils — for Stirling's tower 
Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims, S3 
And Normans call me James Fitz-James. 
Thus watch I o'er insulted laws, 
Thus learn to right the injured cause." — 
Then, in a tone apart and low, — 
"Ah, little traitress ! none must know 
What idle dream, what lighter thought, 
What vanity full dearly bought, 
Join'd to thine eye's dark witchcraft, drew 
My spell-bound steps to Benvenue, 



In dangerous hour, and all but gave 
Thy Monarch's life to mountain glaive ! "— 
Aloud he spoke — "Thou still dost hold 
That little talisman of gold, 
Pledge of my faith, Fitz-James's ring-^ 
What seeks fair Ellen of the King?" 

XXIX. 

Full well the conscious maiden guess'd 
He probed the weakness of her breast ; 
But, with that consciousness, there came 
A lightening of her fears for Graeme, 
And more she deem'd the Monarch's ire 
Kindled 'gainst him, who, for her sire, 
Rebellious broadsword boldly drew ; 
And, to her generous feeling true, 
She craved the grace of Roderick Dhu. 
"Forbear thy suit : — the King of Kings 
Alone can stay life's parting wings. 
I know his heart, I know his hand, 
Have shared his cheer, and proved his 

brand : — 
My fairest earldom would I give 
To bid Clan-Alpine's Chieftain live ! 
Hast thou no other boon to crave? 
No other captive friend to save?" 
Blushing, she turn'd her from the King, 
And to the Douglas gave the ring, 
As if she wish'd her sire to speak 
The suit that stain'd her glowing cheek. — 
' ' Nay, then, my pledge has lost its force, 
And stubborn justice holds her course. — 
Malcolm , come forth ! " — And, at the word, 
Down kneel'd the Graeme to Scotland's 

Lord. 
" For thee, rash youth, no suppliant sues, 
From thee may Vengeance claim her 1 dues, 
Who, nurtured underneath our smile, 
Hast paid our care by treacherous wile, 
And sought amid thy faithful clan, 
A refuge for an outlaw' d man, 
Dishonouring thus thy loyal name. — 
Fetters and warder for the Graeme !" 
His chain of gold the King unstrung, 
The links o'er Malcolm's neck he flung, 
Then gently drew the glittering band, 
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand. 



Harp of the North, farewell ! The hills 
grow dark, 
On purple peaks a deeper shade descend- 
ing; 
In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her 
spark, 
The deer, half-seen, are to the covert 
wending. 



i&> 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORItS. 



Resume thy wizard elm ! the fountain 
lending, 
And the wild breeze, thy wilder min- 
strelsy ; 
Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers 
blending, 
With distant echo from the fold and lea, 
And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of 
housing bee. 

Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel 
harp ! 
Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway, 
And little reck I of the censure sharp 

May idly cavil at an idle lay. 
Much have I owed thy strains on life's 
long way, 
Through secret woes the world has 
never known, 
When on the weary night dawn'd wearier 
day, 



And bitterer was the grief devour'd 
alone. 
That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress ! is 
thine own. 

Hark ! as my lingering footsteps slow retire, 
Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy 
string ! 
'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of 
fire, 
'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic wing. 
Receding now, the dying numbers ring 
Fainter and fainter down the rugged 
dell, 
And now the mountain breezes scarcely 
bring 
A wandering witch-note of the distant 
spell — 
And now, 'tis silent all 1— Enchantress; 
fare thee well ! 




THE 

VISION OF DON RODERICK 



JOHN WHITMORE, ESQ. 

AND TO THE COMMITTEE OF SUBSCRIBERS FOR RELIEF OF THE PORTUGUESE 
SUFFERERS IN WHICH HE PRESIDES, 

THIS POEM, 

(THE VISION OF DON RODERICK,) 

COMPOSED FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE FUND UNDER THEIR MANAGEMENT, 
IS RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY 

WALTER SCOTT. 



Ptefaft, 

r The following Poem is founded upon a Spanish Tradition, particularly detailed in the Notes ; 
but bearing; in general, that Don Roderick, the last Gothic King of Spain, when tJie Invasion 
of tlte Moors was impending, had the temerity to descend into an ancient vault, near Toledo, 
the opening of which had been denotcnced as fatal to the Spanish Monarchy. The legend adds, 
that his rash curiosity was mortified by an emblematical representation of those Saracens who, 
in the year 714, defeated him in battle, and reduced Spain under their dominion. I have 
presumed to prolong the Vision of the Revolutions of Spain down to the present eventful crisis 
of t 'lie Peninsula; and to divide it, by a supposed change of scene, into Three Periods. The 
First of these represents the Invasion of the Moors, the Defeat and Death of Roderick, and 
closes with tJie peaceful occupation of the country by the Victors. The Second Period em- 
braces the state of the Peninsula, when the cotiquests of tJie Spaniards and Portuguese in the 
East and West Indies had raised to the highest pitch the renown oftJteir arms ; sullied, how- 
ever, by superstition and cruelty. An allusio7i to the inhumanities of the Inquisition termin- 
ates this picture. The Last Part of the Poem opens with the state of Spain previous to the 
unparalleled treachery ^/"Buonaparte ; gives a sketch of the usurpation attempted upon that 
unsuspicious and friendly kingdom, and terminates with the arrival of the British succo7irs. 
It may be far titer proper to mention, that the object of the Poem is less to commemorate or 
detail particular incidents, than to exhibit a general and impressive picture of the several 
periods brought upon the stage. 

Edinburgh, June 24, 1811. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK 

Quid dignum memorare tuis, Hispania, terris, 
Vox humana valet !— Claudian. 



INTRODUCTION, 
i. 

Lives there a strain, whose sounds of 
mounting fire 
May rise distinguished o'er the din of 
war ; 
Or died it with yon Master of the Lyre, 
'Who sung beleaguer' d Ilion's evil star? 
Such, Wellington, might reach thee 
from afar, 
Wafting its descant wide o'er Ocean's 
range ; 
Nor shouts, nor clashing arms, its mood 
could mar, 
All as it swell' d 'twixt each loud 
trumpet-change, 
That clangs to Britain victory, to Portugal 
revenge ! 

ii. 
Yes ! such a strain, with all o'er-pouring 
measure, 
Might melodize with each tumultuous 
sound, 
Each voice of fear or triumph, woe or 
pleasure, 
That rings Mondego's ravaged shores 
around ; 
The thundering cry of hosts with con- 
quest crown' d, 
The female shriek, the ruin'd peasant's 
moan, 
The shout of captives from their chains 
unbound, 
The foil'd oppressor's deep and sullen 
groan, 
A Nation's choral hymn for tyranny o'er- 
thrown. 



But we, weak minstrels of a laggard day, 

Skill'd but to imitate an elder page, 
Timid and raptureless, can we repay 
The debt thou claim 'st in this ex- 
hausted age? 
Thou givest our lyres a theme, that 
might engage 



Those that could send thy name o'er 
sea and land, 
While sea and land shall last; for 
Homer's rage 
A theme ; a theme for Milton's mighty 
hand — 
How much unmeet for us, a faint de- 
generate band ! 

IV. 

Ye mountains stern! within whose 
rugged breast 
The friends of Scottish freedom found 
repose ; 
Ye torrents ! whose hoarse sounds have 
soothed their rest, 
Returning from the field of vanquish'd 
foes; 
Say have ye lost each wild majestic close, 
That erst the choir of Bards or Druids 
flung; 
What time their hymn of victory arose, 
And Cattraeth's glens with voice of 
triumph rung, 
And mystic Merlin harp'd, and gray-hair'd 
Llywarch sung ! * 

v. 
O ! if your wilds such minstrelsy retain, 
As sure your changeful gales seem oft 
to say 
When sweeping wild and sinking soft 
again, 
Like trumpet -jubilee, or harp's wild 
sway ; 
If ye can echo such triumphant lay, 
Then lend the note to him has loved 
you long ! 
Who pious gather'd each tradition gray, 
That floats your solitary wastes along, 
And with affection vain gave them new 
voice in song. 

VI. 

For not till now, how oft soe'er the task 
Of truant verse hath lighten'd graver 
care, 

From Muse or Sylvan was he wont to ask, 
In phrase poetic, inspiration fair ; 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



163 



Careless he gave his numbers to the air, 
They came unsought for, if applauses 
came; 
Nor'for himself prefers he now the prayer ; 
Let but his verse befit a hero's fame, 
Immortal be the verse ! — forgot the poet's 
name. 

VII. 
Hark, from yon misty cairn their answer 
tost : 
1 ' Minstrel ! the fame of whose ro- 
mantic lyre, 
Capricious-swelling now, may soon be 
lost, 
Like the light flickering of a cottage 
fire; 
If to such task presumptuous thou'aspire, 
Seek not from us the meed to warrior 
due: 
Age after age has gather'd son to sire, 
Since our gray cliffs the din of conflict 
knew, t 
Or, pealing through our vales, victorious 
bugles blew. 

vin. 
' ' Decay'd our old traditionary lore, 
Save where the lingering fays renew 
their ring, 
By milk-maid seen beneath the haw- 
thorn hoar, 
Or round the marge of Minchmore's 
haunted spring: 2 
Save where their legends gray-hair'd 
shepherds sing, 
That now scarce win a listening ear 
but thine, 
Of feuds obscure, and Border ravaging, 
And rugged deeds recount in rugged 
line, 
Of moonlight foray made on Teviot, 
Tweed, or Tyne. 

rx. 
" No ! search romantic lands, where the 
near Sun 
Gives with unstinted boon ethereal 
flame, 
Where the rude villager, his labour done, 
In verse spontaneous 3 chants some 
favour'd name. 
Whether. Olalia's charms his tribute 
claim, 
Her eye of diamond, and her locks of 
jet; 
Or whether, kindling at the deeds of 
Graeme, * 



He sing, to wild Morisco measure set, 
Old Albin's red claymore, green Erin's 
bayonet ! 

x. 
"Explore those regions, where the 
flinty crest 
Of wild Nevada ever gleams with 
snows, 
Where in the proud Alhambra's ruin'd 
breast 
Barbaric monuments of pomp repose ; 
Or where the banners of more ruthless 
foes 
Than the fierce Moor, float o'er To- 
ledo's fane, 
From whose tall towers even now the 
patriot throws 
An anxious glance, to spy upon the 
plain 
The blended ranks of England, Portugal, 
and Spain. 

XI. 

"There, of Numantian fire a swarthy 
spark 
Still lightens in the sun-burnt native's 
eye ; 
The stately port, slow step, and visage 
dark, 
Still mark ^enduring pride and con^ 
stancy. 
And, if the glow of feudal chivalry 
Beam not, as once, thy nobles' dearest 
pride, 
Iberia ! oft thy crestless peasantry 
Have seen the plumed Hidalgo quit 
their side, 
Have seen, yet dauntless stood — 'gainst 
fortune fought and died. 

xir. 

' ' And cherish'd still by that unchanging 
race, 
Are themes for minstrelsy more high 
than thine ; 
Of strange tradition many a mystic trace, 
Legend and vision, prophecy and sign ; 
Where wonders wild of Arabesque com- 
bine 
With Gothic imagery of darker shade, 
Forming a model meet for minstrel line. 
Go, seek such theme!" — The Moun- 
tain Spirit said : 
With filial awe I heard— I heard, and I 
obey'd. 



164 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



-t 



Rearing their crests amid the cloudless 
skies, 

And darkly clustering in the pale 
moonlight, 
Toledo's holy towers and spires arise, 
As from a trembling lake of silver 
white. 
Their mingled shadows intercept the 
sight 
Of the broad burial - ground out- 
stretch'd below, 
And nought disturbs the silence of the 
night ; 
All sleeps in sullen shade, or silver 
glow, 
All save the heavy swell of Teio's cease- 
less flow. 

ir. 
All save the rushing swell of Teio's tide, 
Or, distant heard, a courser's neigh 
or tramp ; 
Their changing rounds as watchful 
horsemen ride, 
To guard the limits of King Roderick's 
camp. 
For, through the river's night-fog rolling 
damp, 
Was many aproud pavilion dimly seen, 
Which glimmer'd back against the 
moon's fair lamp, 
Tissues of silk and silver twisted sheen, 
And standards proudly pitch'd, and ward- 
ers arm'd between. 

in. 
But of their Monarch's person keeping 
ward, 
Since last the deep-mouth'd bell of 
vespers toll'd, 
The chosen soldiers of the royal guard 
The post beneath the proud Cathedral 
hold; 
A band unlike their Gothic sires of old, 
Who, for the cap of steel and iron 
mace, 
Bear slender darts, and casques bedeck' d 
with gold, 
While silver-studded belts their shoul- 
ders grace, 
Where ivory quivers ring in the broad 
falchion's place. 

IV. 

In the light language of an idle court, 
They murmur'd at their master's long 
delay, 



And held his lengthen'd orisons in 
sport : — 
' ' What ! will Don Roderick here till 
morning stay, 
To wear in shrift and prayer the night 
away? 
And are his hours in such dull penance 
past, 
For fair Florinda's plunder' d charms to 
pay ? " 5 — 
Then to the east their weary eyes 
they cast, 
And wish'd the lingering dawn would 
glimmer forth at last. 



But, far within, Toledo's Prelate lent 

An ear of fearful wonder to the King ; 
The silver lamp a fitful lustre sent, 

So longthatsad confession witnessing : 
For Roderick told of many a hidden 
thing, 
Such as are lothly utter'd to the air, 
When Fear, Remorse, and Shame tne 
bosom wring, 
And Guilt his secret burden cannot 
bear, 
And Conscience seeks in speech a respite 
from Despair. 

VI. 

Full on the Prelate's face, and silver hair, 
The stream of failing light was feebly 
roll'd : 
But Roderick's visage, though his head 
was bare, 
Was shadow'd by his hand and 
mantle's fold. 
While of his hidden soul the sins he told, 
Proud Alaric's descendant could not 
brook, 
That mortal man his bearing should 
behold, 
Or boast that he had seen, when Con- 
science shook, 
Fear tame a monarch's brow, Remorse a 
warrior's look. 

VII. 

The old man's faded cheek wax'd yet 
more pale, 
As many a secret sad the King be- 
wray'd ; 
As sign and glance eked out the unfin- 
ish'd tale, 
When in the midst his faltering whisper 
staid. — 



"Thus royal Witiza * was slain,"— he 
said; 
"Yet, holy Father, deem notitwas I." 
Thus still Ambition strives her crimes to 
shade. — 
"Oh! rather deem 'twas stern necessity! 
Self-preservation bade, and I must kill or 
die. 

VIII. 

"And if Florinda's shrieks alarm'd the 
air, 
If she invoked her absent sire in vain, 
And on her knees implored that I would 
spare, 
Yet, reverend priest, thy sentence rash 
refrain ! — 
All is not as it seems — the female train 
Know by their bearing to disguise 
their mood :" — 
But Conscience here, as if in high 
disdain, 
Sent to the Monarch's cheek the 
burning blood — 
He stay'd his speech abrupt — and up the 
Prelate stood. 



" O harden'd offspring of an iron race ! 
What of thy crimes, Don Roderick, 
shall I say? 
What alms, or prayers, or penance can 
efface 
Murder's dark spot, wash treason's 
stain away ! 
For the foul ravisher how shall I pray, 
Who, scarce repentant, makes his 
crime his boast ? 
How hope Almighty vengeance shall 
delay, 
Unless in mercy to yon Christian 
host, 
He spare the shepherd, lest the guiltless 
sheep be lost." 

x. 

Then kindled the dark Tyrant in his 
mood, 
And to his brow return'd its dauntless 
gloom ; 
"And welcome then," he cried, "be 
blood for blood, 
For treason treachery, for dishonour 
doom ! 



* Witiza was Roderick's predecessor on the 
Spanish throne. He was slain by Roderick's 
connivance. 



Yet will I know whence come they, or 
by whom. 
Show, for thou canst — give forth the 
fated key, 
And guide me, Priest, to that mys- 
terious room, 
Where, if aught trueinold traditionbe, 
His nation's future fates a Spanish King 
shall see." — 



"Ill-fated Prince! recall the desperate 
word, 
Or pause ere yet the omen thou obey ! 
Bethink, yon spell-bound portal would 
afford 
Never to former Monarch entrance- 
way ; 
Nor shall it ever ope, old records say, 

Save to a King, the last of all his line, 
What time his empire totters to decay, 
And treason digs, beneath, her fatal 
mine, 
And, high above, impends avenging wrath 
divine." — 

Xii. 
"Prelate! a Monarch's fate brooks no 
delay ; 
Lead on!" — The ponderous key the 
old man took, 
And held the winking lamp, and led the 
way, 
By winding stair, dark aisle, and 
secret nook, 
Then on an ancient ^gateway bent his 
look; 
And, as the key the desperate King 
essay' d, 
Low mutter'd thunders the Cathedral 
shook, 
And twice he stopp'd, and twice new 
effort made, 
Till the huge bolts roll'd back, and the 
loud hinges bray'd. 

XIII. 

Long, large, and lofty was that vaulted 
hall; 
Roof, walls, and floor were all of 
marble stone, 
Of polish' d marble, black as funeral pall, 
Carved o'er with signs and characters 
unknown. 
A paly light, as of the dawning, shone 
Through the sad bounds, but whence 
they could not spy ; 
For window to the upper air was none ; 



166 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Yet, by that light, Don Roderick 
could descry 
Wonders that ne'er till then were seen by 
mortal eye. 

XIV. 

Grim sentinels, against the upper wall, 
Of molten bronze, two Statues held 
their place ; 
Massive their naked limbs, their stature 
tall, 
Their frowning foreheads golden 
circles grace. 
Moulded they seem'd for kings of giant 
race, 
That lived and sinn'd before the 
avenging flood ; 
This grasp' d a scythe, that rested on a 
mace ; 
This spread his wings for flight, that 
pondering stood, 
Each stubborn seem'd and stern, immu- 
table of mood. 

xv. 

Fix'd was the right-hand Giant's brazen 
look 
Upon his brother's glass of shifting 
sand, 
As if its ebb he measured by a book, 
Whose iron volume loaded his huge 
hand ; 
In which was wrote of many a fallen 
land, 
Of empires lost, and kings to exile 
driven : 
And o'er that pair their names in scroll 
expand — 
"Lo, Destiny and Time! to whom 
by Heaven 
The guidance of the earth is for a season 
given." — 

XVI. 

Even while they read, the sand-glass 
wastes away ; 
And, as the last andlagging grains 
did creep, 
That right-hand Giant 'gan his club 
upsway, 
As one that startles from a heavy 
sleep. 
Full on the upper wall the mace's sweep 
At once descended with the force of 
thunder, 
And hurtling down at once, in crumbled 
heap, 



The marble boundary was rent 
asunder, 
And gave to Roderick's view new sights 
of fear and wonder. 



For they might spy, beyond that mighty 
breach, 
Realms as of Spain in vision'd pro- 
spect laid, 
Castles and towers, in due proportion 
each, 
As by some skilful artist's hand por- 
tray' d; 
Here, cross'd by many a wild Sierra's 
shade, 
And boundless plains that tire th^ 
traveller's eye ; 
There, rich with vineyard and with 
olive glade, 
Or deep-embrown' d by forests huge 
and high, 
Or wash'd by mighty streams, that slowly 
murmur' d by. 

XVIII. 

And here, as erst upon the antique stage, 
Pass'd forth the band of masquers 
trimly led, 
In various forms, and various equipage, 
While fitting strains the hearer's 
fancy fed ; 
So, to sad Roderick's eye in order 
spread, 
Successive pageants fill'd that mystic 
scene, 
Showing the fate of battles ere they 
bled, 
And issue of events that had not 
been; 
And, ever and anon, strange sounds 
were heard between. 



First shrill'd an unrepeated female 
shriek ! — 
It seem'd as if Don Roderick knew 
the call, 
For the bold blood was blanching in 
his cheek. — 
Then answer'd kettle-drum and 
attabal, 
Gong-peal and cymbal-clank the ear 
appal, 
The Tecbir war-cry, and the Lelie's 
yell, 6 
Ring wildly dissonant along the hall. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



167 



Needs not to Roderick their dread 
import tell — 
"The Moor!" he cried, "the Moor! — 
ring out the Tocsin bell ! 

xx. 
"They come! they come! I see the 
groaning lands 
White with the turbans of each Arab 
horde ; 
Swart Zaarah joins her misbelieving 
bands, 
Alia and Mahomet their battle-word, 
The choice they yield, the Koran or the 
Sword — 
See how the Christians rush to arms 
amain ! — 
In yonder shout the voice of conflict 
roar'd, 
The shadowy hosts are closing on the 
plain — 
Now, God and Saint Iago strike, for the 
good cause of Spain ! 

xxr. 

"By Heaven, the Moors prevail! the 
Christians yield ! 
Their coward leader gives for flight 
the sign ! 
The sceptred craven mounts to quit the 
field- 
Is not yon steed Orelio? — Yes, 'tis 
mine ! 7 
But never was she turn'd from battle-line : 
Lo ! where the recreant spurs o'er 
stock and stone ! 
Curses pursue the slave, and wrath 
divine ! 
Rivers ingulf him!" — "Hush," in 
shuddering tone, 
The Prelate said ; — " rash Prince, yon 
vision'd form's thine own." 

XXII. 

Just then, a torrent cross'd the flier's 
course ; 
The dangerous ford the Kingly Like- 
ness tried ; 
But the deep eddies whelm'd both man 
and horse, 
Swept like benighted peasant down 
the tide ; 
And the proud Moslemah spread far 
and wide, 
As numerous as their native locust 
band ; 
Berber and Ismael's sons the spoils 
divide, 



With naked scimitars mete out the 
land, 
And for the bondsmen base the freeborn 
natives brand. 

XXIII. 

Then rose the grated Harem, to enclose 
The loveliest maidens of the Christian 
line ; 
Then, menials, to their misbelieving 
foes, 
Castile's young nobles held forbidden 
wine ; 
Then, too, the holy Cross, salvation's 
sign, 
By impious hands was from the altar 
thrown, 
And the deep aisles of the polluted 
shrine 
Echo'd, for holy hymn and organ- 
tone, 
The Santon's frantic dance, the Fakir's 
gibbering moan . 

XXIV. 

How fares Don Roderick? — E'en as one 
who spies 
Flames dart their glare o'er midnight's 
sable woof, 
And hears around his children's pierc- 
ing cries, 
And sees the pale ' assistants stand 
aloof ; 
While cruel Conscience brings him 
bitter proof, 
His folly or his crime have caused his 
grief; 
And while above him nods the crum- 
bling roof, 
He curses earth and Heaven — him- 
self in chief — 
Desperate of earthly aid, despairing 
Heaven's relief! 

XXV. 

That scythe-arm'd Giant turn'd his fatal 
glass, 
And twilight on the landscape closed 
her wings ; 
Far to Asturian hills the war-sounds 
pass, 
And in their stead rebeck or timbrel 
rings ; 
And to the sound the bell-deck'd dancer 
springs, 
Bazaars resound as when their marts 
are met, 



I6S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



In tourney light the Moor his jerrid* 
flings, 
And on the land as evening seem'd to 
set, 
The Imaum's chant was heard from 
mosque or minaret. 

XXVI. 

So pass'd that pageant. Ere another 
came, 
The visionary scene was wrapp'd in 
smoke, 
Whose sulph'rous wreaths were cross'd 
by sheets of flame ; 
With every flash a bolt explosive 
broke, 
Till Roderick deem'd the fiends had 
burst their yoke, 
And waved 'gainst heaven the in- 
fernal gonfalone?f 
For War a new and dreadful language 
spoke, 
Never by ancient warrior heard or 
known ; 
Lightning and smoke her breath, and 
thunder was her tone. 

XXVII. 

From the dim landscape roll the clouds 
away — 
The Christians have regain' d their 
heritage ; 
Before the Cross has waned the Cres- 
cent's ray 
And many a monastery decks the 
stage, 
And lofty church, and low-brow'd 
hermitage. 
The land obeys a Hermit and a 
Knight,— 
The Genii those of Spain for many an 
age; 
This clad in sackcloth, that in armour 
bright, 
And that was Valour named, this 
Bigotry was hight. 

XXVIII. 

Valour was harness'd like a Chief of 
old, 
Arm'd at all points, and prompt for 
knightly gest ; 
His sword was temper'd in the Ebro 
cold, 
Morena's eagle plume adorn'd his 
crest, 

• Jerrid, javelin. t Gonf alone, banner. 



The spoils of Afric's lion bound his 
breast. 
Fierce he stepp'd forward and flung 
down his gage ; 
As if of mortal kind to brave the best. 
Him follow'd his Companion, dark 
and sage, 
As he, my Master, sung the dangerous 
Archimage. 

xxix. 
Haughty of heart and brow the Warrior 
came, 
In look and language proud as proud 
might be, 
Vaunting his lordship, lineage, fights, 
and fame : 
Yet was that barefoot monk more 
proud than he : 
And as the ivy climbs the tallest tree, 
So round the loftiest soul his toils he 
wound, 
And with his spells subdued the fierce 
and free, 
Till ermined Age and Youth in arms 
renown'd, 
Honouring his scourge and hair-cloth, 
meekly kiss'd the ground. 

xxx. 

And thus it chanced that Valour, 
peerless knight, 
Who ne'er to King or Kaiser veil'd 
his crest, 
Victorious still in bull-feast or in fight, 
Since first his limbs with mail he did 
invest, 
Stoop'd ever to that Anchoret's behest : 
Nor reason'd of the right, nor of the 
wrong, 
But at his bidding laid the lance in rest, 
And wrought fell deeds the troubled 
world along, 
For he was fierce as brave, and pitiless as 
strong. 

XXXI. 

Oft his proud galleys sought some new- 
found world, 
That latest sees the sun, or first the 
morn ; 
Still at that Wizard's feet their spoils he 
hurl'd,— 
Ingots of ore from rich Potosi borne, 
Crowns by Caciques,:}: aigrettes by 
Omrahs worn, 



X Caciques and Omrahs, Peruvian and 
Mexican chiefs or nobles. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



169 



Wrought of rare gems, but broken, 
rent, and foul ; 
Idols of gold from heathen temples torn, 
Bedabbled all with blood. — With 
grisly scowl 
The Hermit mark' d the stains, and smiled 
beneath his cowl. 

XXXII. 

Then did he bless the offering, and bade 
make 
Tribute to Heaven of gratitude and 
praise : 
And at his word the choral hymns 
awake, 
And many a hand the silver censer 
sways. 
But with the incense-breath these cen- 
sers raise, 
Mix steams from corpses smouldering 
in the fire ; 
The groans of prison'd victims mar the 
lays, 
And shrieks of agony confound the 
quire ; 
While, 'mid the mingled sounds, the 
darken' d scenes expire. 

XXXIII. 

Preluding light, were strains of music 
heard, 
As once again revolved that measured 
sand; 
Such sounds as when, for sylvan dance 
prepared, 
Gay Xeres summons forth her vintage 
band; 
When for the light bolero ready stand 
The mozo blithe, with gay muchacha 
met, 8 
He conscious of his broider'd cap and 
band, 
She of her netted locks and light cor- 
sette, 
Each tiptoe perch'd to spring, and shake 
the Castanet. 

XXXIV. 

And well such strains the opening scene 
became ; 
For Valour had relax'd his ardent 
look, 
And at a lady's feet, like lion tame, 
Lay stretch'd, full loth the weight of 
arms to brook ; 
And soften' d Bigotry, upon his book, 
Patter' d a task of little good or ill : 



But the blithe peasant plied hispruning- 
hook, 
Whistled the muleteer o'er vale and 
hill, 
And rung from village-green the merry 
seguidille. 

XXXV. 

Gray Royalty, grown impotent of toil, 
Let the grave sceptre slip his lazy 
hold; 
And, careless, saw his rule become the 
spoil 
Of a loose Female and her minion 
bold. 
But peace was on the cottage and the 
fold, 
From court intrigue, from bickering 
faction far ; 
Beneath the chestnut-tree Love's tale 
was told, 
And to the tinkling of the light guitar, 
Sweet stoop'd the western sun, sweet rose 
the evening star. 

XXXVI. 

As that sea-cloud, in size like human 
hand, 
When first from Carmel by the Tish- 
bite* seen, 
Came slowly overshadowing Israel's 
land, 
A while, perchance, bedeck'd with 
colours sheen, 
While yet the sunbeams on its skirts 
had been, 
Limning with purple and with gold 
its shroud, 
Till darker folds obscured the blue 
serene, 
And blotted heaven with one broad 
sable cloud, 
Then sheeted rain burst down, and whirl- 
winds howl'd aloud : — 

XXXVII. 

Even so, upon that peaceful scene was 
pour'd, 
Like gathering clouds, full many a 
foreign band, 
And He, their Leader, wore in sheath 
his sword, 
And offer'd peaceful front and open 
hand, 

* Elijah the Prophet. See 1 Kings, chap, 
xviii. 



■V 



I70 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Veiling the perjured treachery he 
plann'd, 
By friendship's zeal and honour's 
specious guise, 
Until he won the passes of the land ; 
Then burst were honour's oath and 
friendship's ties ! 
He clutch'd his vulture-grasp, and call'd 
fair Spain his prize. 

xxxvirr. 
An Iron Crown his anxious forehead 
bore; 
And well such diadem his heart be- 
came. 
Who ne'er his purpose for remorse gave 
o'er, 
Or check'd his course for piety or 
shame ; 
Who, train'd a soldier, deem'd a sol- 
dier's fame 
Might flourish in the wreath of battles 
won, 
Though neither truth nor honour deck'd 
his name ; 
Who, placed by fortune on a Mon- 
arch's throne, 
Keck'd not of Monarch's faith, or Mercy's 
kingly tone. 

XXXIX. 

From a rude isle his ruder lineage came, 
The spark, that, from a suburb-hovel's 
hearth 
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame, 
Hath not a meaner or more sordid 
birth. 
And for the soul that bade him waste 
the earth — 
The sable land-flood from some swamp 
obscure, 
That poisons the glad husband-field with 
dearth, 
And by destruction bids its fame en- 
dure, 
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, 
and impure.* 

XL. 

Before that Leader strode a shadowy 

Form ; 
Her limbs like mist, her torch like 

meteor show'd, 
With which she beckon'd him through 

fight and storm, 



* In historical truth, Napoleon I.'s family 
was not plebeian. 



And all he crush' d that cross'd his 
desperate road, 
Nor thought, nor fear'd, nor look'd on 
' what he trode. 

Realms could not glut his pride, blood 
could not slake, 
So oft as e'er she shook her torch abroad-— 
It was Ambition bade her terrors 
wake, 
Nor deign'd she, as of yore, a milder form 
to take. 

XLI. 

No longer now she spurn'd at mean 
revenge, 
Or staid her hand for conquer'd foe- 
man's moan ; 
As when, the fates of aged Rome to 
change, 
By Caesar's side she cross'd the Ru- 
bicon. 
Norjoy'd she to bestow the spoils she 
won, 
As when the banded powers of Greece 
were task'd 
To war beneath the Youth of Macedon : 
No seemly veil her modern minion 
ask'd, 
He saw her hideous face, and loved the 
fiend unmask'd. 

XLII. 

That Prelate mark'd his march — On 
banners blazed 
With battles won in many a distant 
land, 
On eagle-standards and on arms he 
gazed ; 
"And hopest thou then," he said, 
' ' thy power shall stand ? 
O, thou hast builded on the shifting sand, 
And thou hast temper'd it with slaugh- 
ter's flood ; 
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty s 
hand, 
Gore-moisten' d trees shall perish in 
the bud, 
And by a bloody death shall die the Man 
of Blood ! " 

XLIII. 

The ruthless Leader beckon'd from his 
train 
A wan fraternal Shade, and bade him 
kneel, 
And paled his temples with the crown 
of Spain, 
While trumpets raag, and heralds 
cried, " Castile!" 9 

— — 1 -^— — — — 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



m 



Not that he loved him— No !— In no 
man's weal, 
Scarce in his own, e'er joy' d that sullen 
heart ; 
Yet round that throne he bade his war- 
riors wheel, 
That the poor Puppet might perform 
his part, 
And be a sceptred slave, at his stern beck 
to start. 

XLIV. 

But on the Natives of that Land misused, 
Not long the silence of amazement 
hung, 
Nor brook'd they long their friendly 
faith abused ; 
For, with a common shriek, the 
general tongue 
Exclaim'd, "To arms!" and fast to 
arms they sprung. 
And Valour woke,' that Genius of 
the Land ! 
Pleasure, and ease, and sloth, aside he 
flung, 
As burst th' awakening Nazarite his 
band, 
When 'gainst his treacherous foes he 
clench'd his dreadful hand.* 

XLV. 

That Mimic Monarch now casf anxious 
eye 
Upon the Satraps .that begirt him 
round, 
Now doff' d his royal robe in act to fly, 
And from his brow the diadem un- 
bound. 
So oft, so near, the Patriot bugle wound, 
From Tarick's walls to Bilboa's moun- 
tains blown, 
These martial satellites hard labour 
found, 
To guard a while his substituted 
throne — 
Light recking of his cause, but battling 
for their own. 

XLVI. 

From Alpuhara's peak that bugle rung, 
And it was echo'd from Corunna's 
wall ; 

Stately Seville responsive war-shot flung, 
Grenada caught it in her Moorish hall ; 

Galicia bade her children fight or fall, 



* Samson. See Judges, chap. xv. 9—16. 



Wild Biscay shook his mountain- 
coronet, 
Valencia roused her at the battle-call, 
And, foremost still where Valour's 
sons are met, 
First started to his gun each fiery Miquelet. 

xlvii. 
But unappall'd and burning for the fight, 
The Invaders march, of victory secure ; 
Skilful their force to sever or unite, 
And train'd alike to vanquish or en- 
dure. 
Nor skilful less, cheap conquest to en- 
sure, 
Discord to breathe, and jealousy to sow, 
To quell by boasting, and by bribes to 
lure ; 
While nought against them bring the 
unpractised foe, 
Save hearts for Freedom's cause, and hands 
for Freedom's blow. 

xlviii. 
Proudly they march — but, O ! they 
march not forth 
By one hot field to crown a brief 
campaign, 
As when their Eagles, sweeping through 
the North, 
Destroy'd at every stoop an ancient 
reign ! 
Far other fate had Heaven decreed for 
Spain ; 
In vain the steel, in vain the torch 
was plied, 
New Patriot armies started from the 
slain, 
High blazed the war, and long, and 
far, and wide, 10 
And oft the God of Battles blest the 
righteous side. • 

XLIX. 

Nor unatoned, where Freedom's foes 
prevail, 
Remain' d their savage waste. With 
blade and brand, 
By day the Invaders ravaged hill and dale, 
But, with the darkness, the Guerilla 
band 
Came like night's tempest, and avenged 
the land, 
And claim'd for blood the retribution 
due, 
Probed the hard heart, and lopp'd the 
murd'rous hand ; 



17- 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And Dawn, when o'er the scene her 

beams she threw, 
Midst ruins they had made, the spoilers' 
corpses knew. 

L. 

What minstrel verse may sing, or tongue 
may tell, 
Amid the vision'd strife fromseatosea, j 
How oft the Patriot banners rose or fell, 

Still honour'd in defeat as victory ! 
For that sad pageant of events to be, 
Show'd every form of fight by field 
and flood ; 
Slaughter and Ruin, shouting forth their 
glee, 
Beheld, while riding on the tempest 
scud, 
The waters choked with slain, the earth 
bedrench'd with blood ! 



Then Zaragoza — blighted be the tongue 
That names thy name without the 
honour due ! 
For never hath the harp of Minstrel rung 

Of faith so felly proved, so firmly true ! . 
Mine, sap, and bomb, thy shatter'd I 
ruins knew, 
Each art of war's extremity had room, i 
Twice from thy half-sack'd streets the 
foe withdrew, 
And when at length stern fate decreed | 
thy doom, 
They won not Zaragoza, but her children's I 
bloody tomb." 

LII. 

Yet raise thy head, sad city ! Though 
in chains, 
Enthrall'd thou canst.not be ! Arise, 
and claim 
Reverence from every heart where Free- 
dom reigns, 
For what thou worshippest! — thy 
sainted dame, 
She of the Column, honour'dbehername, 
By all, whate'er their creed, who 
honour love ! 
And like the sacred relics of the flame, 
That gave some martyr to the bless'd 
above, 
To every loyal heart may thy sad embers 
prove ! 

Liii. 
Nor thine alone such wreck. Gerona fair ! 
Faithful to death thy heroes shall be 
sung, 



Manning the towers while o'er their 
heads the air 
Swart as the smoke from raging fur- 
nace hung ; 
Now thicker dark'ning where the mine 
was sprung, 
Now briefly lighten'd by the cannon's 
flare, 
Nowarch'd with fire-sparks as the bomb 
was flung, 
And redd'ning now with conflagra- 
tion's glare, 
While by the fatal light the foes for storm 
prepare. 

LIV. 

While all around was danger, strife, and 
fear, 
While the earth shook, and darken'd 
was the sky, 
And wide Destruction stunn'd the listen- 
ing ear, 
Appall' d the heart, and stupefied the 
eye, — 
Afar was heard that thrice-repeated cry, 
In which old Albion's heart and 
tongue unite, 
Whene'er her soul is up, and pulse beats 
high, 
Whether it hail the wine cup or the 
fight, 
And bid each arm be strong, or bid each 
heart be light. 

LV. 

Don Roderick turn'd him as the shout 
grew loud — 
A varied scene the changeful vision 
show'd, 
For, where the ocean mingled with the 
cloud, 
A gallant navy stemm'd the billows 
broad. 
From mast and stern St. George's 
symbol flow'd, 
Blent with the silver cross to Scotland 
dear; 
Mottling the sea their landward barges 
row'd. 
And flash' d the sun on bayonet, brand, 
and spear, 
And the wild beach return'd the seaman's 
jovial cheer. 

Lvr. 
It was a dread, yet spirit-stirring sight ! 
The billows foam'd beneath a thou- 
sand oars, 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



173 



Fast as they land the red-cross ranks 
unite, 
Legions on legions bright'ning all the 
shores. 
Then banners rise, and cannon-signal 
roars, 
Then peals the warlike thunder of the 
drum, 
Thrills the loud fife, the trumpet-flourish 
pours, 
And patriot hopes awake, and doubts 
are dumb, 
For, bold in Freedom's cause, the bands 
of Ocean come ! 
lvii. 
A various host they came — whose ranks 
display 
Each mode in which the warrior meets 
the fight, 
The deep battalion locks its firm array, 
And meditates his aim the marksman 
light; 
Far glance the light of sabres flashing 
bright, 
Where mounted squadrons shake the 
echoing mead, 
Lacks not artillery breathing flame and 
night, 
Nor the fleet ordnance whirl'd by 
rapid steed, 
That rivals lightning's flash in ruin and in 
speed. 

LVIII. 
A various host— from kindred realms 
they came, 
Brethren in arms, but rivals in re- 
nown— 
For yon fair bands shall merry England 
claim, 
And with their deeds of valour deck 
her crown. 
Hers their bold port, and hers their 
martial frown, 
And hers their scorn of death in free- 
dom's cause, 
Their eyes of azure, and their locks of 
brown, 
And the blunt speech that bursts with- 
out a pause, 
And freeborn thoughts, which league the 
Soldier with the Laws. 

LIX. 

And, O ! loved warriors of the Minstrel's 
land! 
Yonder your bonnets nod, your tartans 
wave 1 



The rugged form may mark the moun- 
tain band, 
And harsher features, and a mien 
more grave ; 
But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart 
so brave, 
As that which beats beneath the 
Scottish plaid ; 
And when the pibroch bids the battle 
rave, 
And level for the charge your arms 
are laid, 
Where lives the desperate foe that for such 
onset staid ! 



Hark! from yon stately ranks what 
laughter rings, 
Mingling wild mirth with war's stern 
minstrelsy, 
His jest while each blithe comrade round 
him flings, 
And moves to death with military 
glee: 
Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, 
frank, and free, 
In kindness warm, and fierce in 
danger known, 
Rough nature's children, humorous as 
she: 
And He, yon Chieftain— strike the 
proudest tone 
Of thy bold harp, green Isle ! — the Hero 
is thine own. 

lxi. 

Now on the scene Vimeira* should be 
shown, 
On Talavera's fight should Roderick 
gaze, 
And hear Corunna wail her battle won, 
And see Busaco's crest with lightning 
blaze : — 
But shall fond fable mix with heroes' 
praise? 
Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long 
triumphs room? 
And dare her wild-flowers mingle with 
the bays, 
That claim a long eternity to bloom 
Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the 
warrior's tomb ! 



* The battle of Vimeira was fought August 
21st, 1808 ; Corunna, January 16th, 1809 ; 
Talavera, July 28th, 1809; Busaco, Septem- 
ber 27th, 1810. 



m 



scorrs POETICAL WORKS. 



Lxir. 
Or may I give adventurous Fancy 
scope, 
And stretch a bold hand to the awful 
veil 
That hides futurity from anxious hope, 
Bidding beyond it scenes of glory 
hail, 
And panting Europe rousing at the tale 
Of Spain's invaders from her confines 
hurl'd, 
While kindling nations buckle on their 
mail, 
And Fame, with clarion-blast and 
wings unfurl'd, 
To Freedom and Revenge awakes an 
injured World? 

LXIII. 

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I 
cast, 
Since Fate has mark'd futurity her 
own : 
Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious 
past, 
The deeds recorded, and the laurels 
won. 
Then, though the Vault of Destiny 12 be 
gone, 
King, Prelate, all the phantasms of 
my brain, 
Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun, 
Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for 
Spain, 
One note of pride and fire, " a Patriot's 
parting strain ! 



CONCLUSION. 

I. 

" Who shall command Estrella's moun- 
tain-tide 
Back to the source, when tempest- 
chafed, to hie ? 
Who, when Gascogne's vex'd gulf is 
raging wide, 
Shall hush it as a nurse her infant's 
cry? 
His magic power let such vain boaster try, 
And when the torrent shall his voice 
obey, 
And Biscay's whirlwinds list his lullaby, 
Let him stand forth and bar mine 
eagles' way, 
And they shall heed his voice, and at his 
bidding stay. 



"Else ne'er to stoop, till high on 
Lisbon's towers 
They close their wings, the symbol of 
our yoke, 
And their own sea hath whelm'd yon 
red-cross Powers! " 
Thus, on the summit of Alverca's 
rock, 
To Marshal, Duke, and Peer, Gaul's 
Leader spoke. 
While downward on the land his 
legions press, 
Before them it was rich with vine and 
flock, 
And smiled like Eden in her summer 
dress ; 
Behind their wasteful march, a reeking 
wilderness. x 3 

III. 

And shall the boastful Chief maintain 
his word, 
Though Heaven hath heard the wait- 
ings of the land, 
Though Lusitania whet her vengeful 
sword, 
Though Britons arm, and Wel- 
lington command ! 
No ! grim Busaco's iron ridge shall stand 

An adamantine barrier to his force ; 
And from its base shall wheel his shat- 
ter'd band, 
As from the unshaken rock the torrent 
hoarse 
Bears off its broken waves, and seeks a 
devious course. 



Yet not because Alcoba's mountain-hawk 
Hath on his best and bravest made her 
food, 
In numbers confident, yon Chief shall 
balk 
His Lord's imperial thirst for spoil 
and blood : 
For full in view the promised conquest 
stood, 
And Lisbon's matrons from their walls 
might sum 
The myriads that had half the world 
subdued, 
And hear the distant thunders of the 
drum, 
That bids the bands of France to storm 
and havoc come. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



*7S 



Four moons have heard these thunders 
idly roll'd, 
Have seen these wistful myriads eye 
their prey, 
As famish'd wolves survey a guarded 
fold- 
But in the middle path a Lion lay ! 
At length they move — but not to battle- 
fray, 
Nor blaze yon fires where meets the 
manly fight ; 
Beacons of infamy, they light the way 
Where cowardice and cruelty unite 
To damn with double shame their igno- 
minious flight ! 

VI. 

O triumph for the Fiends of Lust and 
Wrath ! 
Ne'er to be told, yet ne'er to be 
forgot, 
What wanton horrors mark'd their 
wreckful path ! 
The peasant butcher'd in his ruin'd 
cot, 
The hoary priest even at the altar shot, 
Childhood and age given o'er to sword 
and flame, 
Woman to infamy; — no crime forgot, 
By which inventive demons might pro- 
claim 
Immortal hate to man, and scorn of God's 
great name ! 

VII. 

The rudest sentinel, in Britain born, 
With horror paused to view the havoc 
done, 
Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch 
forlorn, 1 * 
Wiped his stern eye, then fiercer 
grasp'd his gun. 
Nor with less zeal shall Britain's peace- 
ful son 
Exult the debt of sympathy to pay ; 
Riches nor poverty the tax shall shun, 
Nor prince nor peer, the wealthy nor 
the gay, 
Nor the poor peasant's mite, nor bard's 
more worthless lay. 

VIII. 

But thou— unfoughten wilt thou yield to 
Fate, 
Minion of Fortune, now miscall'd in 
vainl 



Can vantage-ground no confidence 
create, 
Marcella's pass, nor Guarda's moun- 
tain-chain ? 
Vainglorious fugitive ! *S yet turn again ! 
Behold, where, named by some pro- 
phetic Seer, 
Flows Honour's Fountain,* as fore- 
doom'd the stain 
From thy dishonour'd name and arms 
to clear — 
Fallen Child of Fortune, turn, redeem her 
favour here ! 

IX. 

Yet, ere thou turn'st, collect each distant 
aid; 
Those chief that never heard the lion 
roar ! 
Within whose souls fives not a trace 
portray'd 
Of Talavera, or Mondego's shore ! 
Marshal each band thou hast, and sum- 
mon more ; 
Of war's fell stratagems exhaust the 
whole ; 
Rank upon rank, squadron on squadron 
pour, 
Legion on legion on thy foeman roll, 
And weary out his arm — thou canst not 
quell his soul. 
x. 
O vainly gleams with steel Agueda's 
shore, 
Vainly thy squadrons hide Assuava's 
plain, 
And front the flying thunders as they roar, 
With frantic charge and tenfold odds, 
in vain ! l6 
And what avails thee that, for Cameron 
slain, 1 ? 
Wild from his plaided ranks the yell 
was given — 
Vengeance and grief gave mountain- 
rage the rein, 
And, at the bloody spear-point head- 
long driven, 
Thy Despot's giant guards fled like the 
rack of heaven. 

XI. 

Go, baffled boaster ! teach thy haughty 
mood 
To plead at thine imperious master's 
throne, 

* The literal translation of Fuentes d 'Ho- 



176 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Say, thou hast left his legions in their 
blood, 
Deceived his hopes, and frustrated 
thine own ; 
Say, that thine utmost skill and valour 
shown, 
By British skill and valour were out- 
vied; 
Last say, thy conqueror was Welling- 
ton! 
And if he chafe, be his own fortune 
tried- 
God and our cause to friend, the venture 
we'll abide. 



But you, ye heroes of that well-fought 
day, 
How shall a bard, unknowing and 
unknown, 
His meed to each victorious leader pay, 
Or bind on every brow the laurels won? 
Yet fain my harp would wake its boldest 
tone, 
O'er the wide sea to hail Cadogan 
brave ; 
And he, perchance, the minstrel-note 
might own, 
Mindful of meeting brief that For- 
tune gave 
Mid yon far western isles that hear the 
Atlantic rave. 

XIII. 

Yes ! hard the task, when Britons wield 
the sword, 
To give each Chief and every field its 
fame : 
Hark ! Albuera thunders Beresford, 
And Red Barossa shouts for dauntless 
Graeme ! 
O for a verse of tumult and of flame, 
Bold as the bursting of their cannon 
sound, 
To bid the world re-echo to their fame ! 
For never, upon gory battle-ground, 
With conquest's well-bought wreath were 
braver victors crown'd ! 

XIV. 

O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays, 
Who brought a race regenerate to the 
field, 
Roused them to emulate their fathers' 
praise, 
Temper'd their headlong rage, their 
courage steel' d, 18 



And raised fair Lusitania's fallen shield, 
And gave new edge to Lusitania's 
sword, v 
And taught her sons forgotten arms to 
wield— 
Shiver'd my harp, and burst its every 
chord, 
If it forget thy worth, victorious Beres- 
ford ! 



Not on that bloody field of battle won, 
Though Gaul's proud legions roll'd 
like mist away, 
Was half his self-devoted valour 
shown, — 
He gaged but life on that illustrious 
day; 
But when he toil'd those squadrons to 
array, 
Who fought like Britons in the bloody 
game, 
Sharper than Polish pike or assagay, 
He braved the shafts of censure and 
of shame, 
And, dearer far than life, he pledged a 
soldier's fame. 

XVI. 

Nor be his praise o'erpast who strove to 
hide 
Beneath the warrior's vest affection's 
wound, 
Whose wish Heaven for his country's 
weal denied ; 
Danger and fate he sought, but glory 
found. 
From clime to clime, where'er war's 
trumpets sound, 
The wanderer went ; yet, Caledonia ! 
still 
Thine was his thought in march and 
tented ground ; 
He dream'd 'mid Alpine cliffs of 
Athole s hill, 
And heard in Ebro's roar his Lyndoch's 
lovely rill. 

XVII. 
O hero of a race renown'd of old, 
Whose war-cry oft has waked the 
battle-swell, 
Since first distinguish'd in the onset bold, 
Wild sounding when the Roman ram- 
part fell! 
By Wallace' side it rung the Southron's 
knell, 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



177 



Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibber, own'd 
its fame, 
Tummell's rude pass can of its terrors 
tell, 
But ne'er from prouder field arose the 
name, 
Than when wild Ronda learn'd the con- 
quering shout of Graeme ! x 9 

xvni. 
But all too long, through seas unknown 
and dark, 
(With Spenser's parable I close my 
tale,) 



By shoal and rock hath steer'd my ven- 
turous bark, 
And landward now I drive before the 
gale. 
And now the blue and distant shore I 
hail, 
And nearer now I see the port expand, 
And now I gladly furl my weary sail, 
And as the prow light touches on the 
strand, 
I strike my red-cross flag and bind my 
skiff to land. 



ROKEBY 



A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



JOHN B. S. MORRITT, ESQ. 

THIS rOEM, THE SCENE OF WHICH IS LAID IN HIS BEAUTIFUL DEMESNE OF ROKEBY, 
IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF SINCERE FRIENDSHIP, 



WALTER SCOTT. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 



Tfie Scene of this Poem is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge, in Yorkshire, and shifts to 
the adjacent Fortress of Barnard Castle, and to other places in that Vicinity. 

The Time occupied by the Action is a space of Five Days, Three of -which are supposed to 
elapse between the end of the Fifth and the beginning of the Sixth Canto. 

The date of tlie supposed events is immediately subsequent to the great Battle of Marsion 
Moor, 3rd July, 1644. This period of public confusion has been chosen, without any purpose 
of combining the Fable with the Military or Political Events of tlie Civil War, but only as 
affording a degree of probability to the Fictitious narrative now presented to the Public. 



I7S SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

Between the publication of " The Lady of the Lake," which was so eminently successful, 
and that of " Rokeby," in 1813, three years had intervened. I shall not, I believe, be accused 
of ever having attempted to usurp a superiority over many men of genius, my contemporaries ; 
but, in point of popularity, not of actual talent, the caprice of the public had certainly given me 
such a temporary superiority over men, of whom in regard to poetical fancy and feeling, I 
scarcely thought myself worthy to loose the shoe-latch. On the other hand, it would be absurd 
affectation in me to deny, that I conceived myself to understand, more perfectly than many of 
my contemporaries, the manner most likely to interest the great mass of mankind. Yet, even 
with this belief, I must truly and fairly say, that I always considered myself rather as one who 
held the bets, in time to be paid over to the winner, than as having any pretence to keep them 
in my own right. 

In the mean time years crept on, and not without their usual depredations on the passing 
generation. My sons had arrived at the age when the paternal home was no longer their best 
abode, as both were destined to active life. The field-sports, to which I was peculiarly attached, 
had now less interest, and were replaced by other amusements of a more quiet character ; and 
the means and opportunity of pursuing these were to be sought for. I had, indeed, for some 
years attended to farming, a knowledge of which is, or at least was then, indispensable to the 
comfort of a family residing in a solitary country-house ; but although this was the favourite 
amusement of many of my friends, I have never been able to consider it as a source of pleasure. 
I never could think it a matter of passing importance, that my cattle, or crops, were better or 
more plentiful than those of my neighbours, and nevertheless I began to feel the necessity of 
some more quiet out-door occupation, different from those I had hitherto pursued. I pur- 
chased a small farm of about one hundred acres, with the purpose of planting and improving it, 
to which property circumstances afterwards enabled me to make considerable additions ; and 
thus an era took place in my life, almost equal to the important one mentioned by the Vicar of 
Wakefield, when he removed from the Blue-room to the Brown. In point of neighbourhood, at 
least, the change of.residence made little more difference. Abbotsford, to which we removed, 
was only six or seven miles down the Tweed, and lay on the same beautiful stream. It did not 
possess the romantic character of Ashestiel, my former residence ; but it had a stretch of 
meadow-land along the river, and possessed, in the phrase of the landscape-gardener, consider- 
able capabilities. Above all, the land was my own, like Uncle Toby's Bowling-green, to do 
what I would with. It had been, though the gratification was long postponed, an early wish of 
mine to connect myself with my mother-earth, and prosecute those experiments by which a 
species of creative power is exercised over the face of nature. I can trace, even to childhood, a 
pleasure derived from Dodsley's account of Shenstone's Leasowes, and I envied the p'feet much 
more for the pleasure of accomplishing the objects detailed in his friend's sketch of his grounds, 
than for the possession of pipe, crook, flock, and Phillis to boot. My memory, also, tenacious 
of quaint expressions, still retained a phrase which it had "gathered from an old almanack of 
Charles the Second's time (when everything down to almanacks affected to be smart), in which 
the reader, in the month of June, is advised, for health's sake, to walk a mile or two every 
day before breakfast, and, if he can possibly so manage, to let his exercise be taken upon his 
own land. 

With the satisfaction of having attained the fulfilment of an early and long-cherished hope, I 
commenced my improvements, as delightful in their progress as those of the child who first 
makes a dress for a new doll. The nakedness of the land was in time hidden by woodlands of 
considerable extent — the smallest of possible cottages was progressively expanded into a sort of 
dream of a mansion-house, whimsical in the exterior, but convenient within. Nor did I forget 
what is the natural pleasure of every man who has been a reader, I mean the filling the shelves 
of a tolerably large library. All these objects I kept in view, to be executed as convenience 
should serve ; and, although I knew many years must elapse before they could be attained, I 
was of a disposition to comfort myself with the Spanish proverb, " Time and I against any two." 

The difficult and indispensable point, of finding a permanent subject of occupation, was now 
at length attained ; but there was annexed to it the necessity of becoming again a candidate for 
public favour ; for, as I was turned improver on the earth of the every-day world, it was under 
condition that the small tenement of Parnassus, which might be accessible to my labours, should 
not remain uncultivated. 

I meditated, at first, a poem on the subject of Bruce, in which I made some progress, but 
afterwards judged it advisable to lay it aside, supposing that an English story might have more 
novelty ; in consequence, the precedence was given to " Rokeby." 

If subject and scenery could have influenced the fate of a poem, that of "Rokeby" should 
have been eminently distinguished ; for the grounds belong to a dear friend, with whom I had 



ROKEBY. 179 



lived in habits of intimacy for many years, and the place itself united the romantic beauties of 
the wilds of Scotland with the rich and smiling aspect of the southern portion of the island. 
But the Cavaliers and Roundheads, whom I attempted to summon up to tenant this beautiful 
region, had for the public neither the novelty nor the peculiar interest of the primitive High- 
landers. This, perhaps, was scarcely to be expected, considering that the general mind sympa- 
thizes readily and at once with the stamp which nature herself has affixed upon the manners of 
a people living in a simple and patriarchal state ; whereas it has more difficulty in understand- 
ing or interesting itself in manners founded upon those peculiar habits of thinking or acting, which 
are produced by the progress of society. We could read with pleasure the tale of the adven- 
tures of a Cossack or a Mongol Tartar, while we only wonder an&. stare over those of the lovers 
in the "Pleasing Chinese History," where the embarrassments turn upon difficulties arising out 
of unintelligible delicacies peculiar to the customs and manners of that affected people. 

The cause of my failure had, however, a far deeper root. The manner, or style, which, by 
its novelty, attracted the public in an unusual degree, had now, after having been three times 
before them, exhausted the patience of the reader, and began in the fourth to lose its charms. 
The reviewers may be said to have apostrophized the author in the language of PameU's 
Edwin ;— 

" And here reverse the charm, he cries, 
And let it fairly now suffice, 
The gambol has been shown." 

The licentious combination of rhymes, in a manner not perhaps very congenial to our lan- 
guage, had not been confined to the author. Indeed, in most similar cases, the inventors of 
such novelties have their reputation destroyed by their own imitators, as Actaeon fell under the 
fury of his own dogs. The present author, like Bobadil, had taught his trick of fence to a 
hundred gentlemen (and ladies), who could fence very nearly, or quite, as well as himself. For 
this there was no remedy ; the harmony became tiresome and ordinary, and both the original 
inventor and his invention must have fallen into contempt, if he had not found out another road 
to public favour. What has been said of the metre only, must be considered to apply equally to 
the structure of the Poem arid of the style. The very best passages of any popular style are not, 
perhaps, susceptible of imitation, but they may be approached by men of talent ; and those 
who are less able to copy them, at least lay hold of their peculiar features, so as to produce a 
strong burlesque. In either way, the effect of the manner is rendered cheap and common ; 
and, in the latter case, ridiculous to boot. The evil consequences to an author's reputation are 
at least as fatal as those which come upon the musical composer, when his melody falls into the 
hands of the street ballad-singer. 

Of the unfavourable species of imitation, the author's style gave room to a very large number, 
owing to an appearance of facility to which some of those who used the measure unquestion- 
ably leaned too far. The effect of the more favourable imitations, composed by persons of 
talent, was almost equally unfortunate to the original minstrel, by showing that they could 
overshoot him with his own bow. In short, the popularity which once attended the School, as 
it was called, was now fast decaying. 

Besides all this, to have kept his ground at the crisis when " Rokeby " appeared, its author 
ought to have put forth his utmost strength, and to have possessed at least all his original ad 
vantages, for a mighty and unexpected rival was advancing on the stage— a rival not in poetical 
powers only, but-in that art of attracting popularity, in which the present writer had hitherto 
preceded better men than himself.' The reader will easily see that Byron is here meant, who, 
after a little velitation of no great promise, now appeared as a serious candidate, in the " First 
two Cantos of Childe Harold." I was astonished at the power evinced by that work, which 
neither the "Hours of Idleness," nor the "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers," had pre- 

Eared me to expect from its author. There was a depth in his thought, an eager abundance in 
is diction, which argued full confidence in the inexhaustible resources of which he felt himself 
possessed ; and there was some appearance of that labour of the file, which indicates that the 
author is conscious of the necessity of doing every justice to his work, that it may pass warrant. 
Lord Byron was also a traveller, a man whose ideas were fired by having seen, in distant scenes 
of difficulty and danger, the places whose very names are recorded in our bosoms as the shrines 
of ancient poetry. For his own misfortune, perhaps, but certainly to the high increase of his 
poetical character, nature had mixed in Lord Byron's system those passions which agitate the 
human heart with most violence, and which may be said to have hurried his bright career to an 
early close. There would have been little wisdom in measuring my force with so formidable an 
•antagonist ; and I was as.likely to tire of playing the second fiddle in the concert, as my audience 
of hearing me. Age also was advancing. I was growing insensible to those subjects of excita- 
tion by which youth is agitated. I had around me the most pleasant but least exciting of all 
society, that of kind friends and an affectionate ; family. My circle of employments was a 
narrow one ; it occupied me constantly, and it became daily more difficult for me to interest 
myself in poetical composition :— 



iSo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"How happily the days of Thalaba went by !" 

Vet, though conscious that I must be, in the opinion of good judges, inferior to the place I 
had for four or five years held in letters, and feeling alike that the latter was one to which I had 
only a temporary right, I could not brook the idea of relinquishing literary occupation, which 
had been so long my chief diversion. Neither was I disposed to choose the alternative of sink- 
ing into a mere editor and commentator, though that was a species of labour which I had 
practised, and to which I was attached. But I could not endure to think that I might not, 
whether known or concealed, do something of more importance. My inmost thoughts were 
those of the Trojan Captain in the galley race, — 

Non jam, prima peto Mnestheus, neque vincere certo ; 
Quanquam O ! — sed superent, quibus hoc, Neptune, dedisti ; 
Extremos pudeat rediisse : hoc vincite, cives, 
Et prohibete nefas." * — JEn. lib. v. 194. 

I had, indeed, some private reasons for my " Quanquam O ! " which were not worse than 
those of Mnestheus. I have already hinted that the materials were collected for a poem on the 
subject of Bruce, and fragments of it had been shown to some of my friends, and received with 
applause. Notwithstanding, therefore, the eminent success of Byron, and the great chance of 
his taking the wind out of my sails, there was, I judged, a species of cowardice in desisting from 
the task which I had undertaken, and it was time enough to retreat when the battle should be 
more decidedly lost. The sale of " Rokeby," excepting as compared with that of " The Lady 
of the Lake," was in the highest degree respectable ; and as it included fifteen hundred quartos, 
in those quarto-reading days, the trade had no reason to be dissatisfied. 

W. S. 
Abbotsford, Afril, 1830. 



ROKEBY 



CANTO FIRST. 
1. 

The Moon is in her summer glow, 
But hoarse and high the breezes blow, 
And, racking o'er her face, the cloud 
Varies the tincture of her shroud ; 
On Barnard's towers, and Tees's stream, 1 
She changes as a guilty dream, 
When conscience, with remorse and fear, 
Goads sleeping Fancy's wild career. 
Her light seems now the blush of shame, 
Seems now fierce anger's darker flame, 
Shifting that shade, to come and go, 
Like apprehension's hurried glow ; 
Then sorrow's livery dims the air, 
And dies in darkness, like despair. 
Such varied hues the warder sees 
Reflected from the woodland Tees, 
Then from old Baliol's tower looks forth, 
See the clouds mustering in the north, 



Hears, upon turret-roof and wall, 
By fits the plashing rain-drop fall, 
Lists to the breeze's boding sound, 
And wraps his shaggy mantle round. 

11. 

Those towers, which in the changeful 

gleam 
Throw murky shadows on the stream, 
Those towers of Barnard hold a guest, 
The emotions of whose troubled breast, 
In wild and strange confusion driven, 
Rival the flitting rack of heaven. 
Ere sleep stern Oswald's senses tied, 
Oft had he changed his weary side, 
Composed his limbs, and vainly sought 
By effort strong to banish thought. 
Sleep came at length, but with a train 
Of feelings true and fancies vain, 
Mingling, in wild disorder cast, 
The expected future with the past. 



I seek not now the foremost palm to gain : 

Though yet — but ah ! that haughty wish is vain ! 

Let those enjoy it whom the gods ordain. 

But to be last, the lags of all the race ! — 

Redeem yourselves and me from that disgrace." — Dryden. 



ROKEBY. 



181 



Conscience, anticipating time, 
Already rues the enacted crime, 
And calls her furies forth, to shake 
The sounding scourge and hissing snake ; 
While her poor victims outward throes 
Bear witness to his mental woes, 
And show what lesson may be read 
Beside a sinner's restless bed. 



Thus Oswald's labouring feelings trace 
Strange changes in his sleeping face, 
Rapid and ominous as these 
With which the moonbeams tinge the 

Tees. 
There might be seen of shame the blush, 
There anger's dark and fiercer flush, 
While the perturbed sleeper's hand 
Seem'd grasping dagger-knife, or brand. 
Relax'd that grasp, the heavy sigh, 
The tear in the half-opening eye, 
The pallid cheek and brow, confess'd 
That grief was busy in his breast ; 
Nor paused that mood — a sudden start 
Impell'd the life-blood from the heart : 
Features convulsed, and mutteriiigs dread, 
Show terror reigns in sorrow's stead. 
That pang the painful slumber broke, 
And Oswald with a start awoke. 



He woke, and fear'd again to close 
His eyelids in such dire repose ; 
He woke, — to watch the lamp, and tell 
From hour to hour the castle-bell. 
Or listen to the owlet's cry, 
Or the sad breeze that whistles by, 
Or catch, by fits, the tuneless rhyme 
With which the warder cheats the time, 
And envying think, how, when the sun 
Bids the poor soldier's watch be done, 
Couch' d on his straw, and fancy-free, 
He sleeps like careless infancy. 

v. 

Far townward sounds a distant tread, 
And Oswald, starting from his bed, 
Hath caught it, though no human ear, 2 
Unsharpen'd by revenge and fear, 
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank, 
Until it reach'd the castle bank. 
Now nigh and plain the sound appears, 
The warder's challenge now he hears, 
Then clanking chains and levers tell, 
That o'er the moat the drawbridge fell, 
And, in the castle court below, 
Voices are heard, and torches glow, 



As marshalling the stranger's way, 
Straight for the room where Oswald lay ; 
The cry was, — " Tidings from the host, 
Of weight — a messenger comes post." 
Stifling the tumult of his breast, 
His answer Oswald thus express'd — 
"Bring food arid wine, and trim the fire ; 
Admit the stranger, and retire." 



The stranger came with heavy stride, 

The morion's plumes his visage hide, 

And the buff-coat, an ample fold, 

Mantles his form's gigantic mould. 3 

Full slender answer deigned he 

To Oswald's anxious courtesy, 

But mark'd, by a disdainful smile, 

He saw and scorn'd the petty wile, 

When Oswald changed the torch's place, 

Anxious that on the soldier's face 

Its partial lustre might be thrown, 

To show his looks, yet hide his own. 

His guest, the while, laid low aside 

The ponderous cloak of tough bull's hide, 

And to the torch glanced broad and clear 

The corslet of a cuirassier ; 

Then from his brows the casque he drew, 

And from the dank plume dash'd the 

dew, 
From gloves of mail relieved his hands, 
And spread them to the kindling brands, 
And, turning to the genial board, 
Without a health, or pledge, or word 
Of meet and social reverence said, 
Deeply he drank, and fiercely fed ; 
As free from ceremony's sway, 
As famish'd wolf that tears his prey. 

VII. 
With deep impatience, tinged with fear, 
His host beheld him gorge his cheer, 
And quaff the full carouse, that lent 
His brow a fiercer hardiment. 
Now Oswald stood a space aside, 
Now paced the room with hasty stride, 
In feverish agony to learn 
Tidings of deep and dread concern, 
Cursing each moment that his guest 
Protracted o'er his ruffian feast. 
Yet, viewing with alarm, at last, 
The end of that uncouth repast, 
Almost he seem'd their haste to rue, 
As, at his sign, his train withdrew, 
And left him with the stranger, free 
To question of his mystery. 
Then did his silence long proclaim 
A struggle between fear and shame. 



iSj 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Much in the stranger's mien appears, 
To justify suspicious fears. 
On his dark face a scorching clime, *> 
And toil, had done the work of time, 
Roughen'd the brow, the temples bared, 
And sable hairs with silver shared, 
Yet left — what age alone could tame — 
The lip of pride, the eye of flame ; 
The full-drawn lip that upward curl'd, 
The eye that seem'd to scorn the world. 
That lip had terror never blench'd ; 
Ne'er in that eye had tear-drop quench'd 
The flash severe of swarthy glow, 
That mock'd at pain, and knew not woe. 
Inured to danger's direst form, 
Tomade and earthquake, flood and storm, 
Death had he seen by sudden blow, 
By wasting plague, by tortures slow, 
By mine or breach, by steel or ball, 
Knew all his shapes, and scorn'd them all. 

IX. 

But yet, though Bertram s harden' d look, 

Unmoved, could blood and dagger brook, 

Still worse than apathy had place 

On his swart brow and callous face ; 

For evil passions, cherish' d long, 

Had plough'd them with impressions 

strong. 
All that gives gloss to sin, all gay 
Light folly, past with youth away, 
But rooted stood, in manhood's hour, 
The weeds of vice without their flower. 
And yet the soil in which they grew, , 
Had it been tamed when life was new, 
Had depth and vigour to bring forth 
The hardier fruits of virtuous worth. 
Not that, e'en then, his heart had known 
The gentler feelings' kindly tone ; 
But lavish waste had been refined 
To bounty in his chasten'd mind, 
And lust of gold, that waste to feed, 
Been lost in love of glory's meed, 
And, frantic then no more, his pride 
Had ta'en fair virtue for its guide. 



Even now, by conscience unrestrain'd, 
Clogg'd by gross vice, by slaughter stain'd, 
Still knew his daring soul to soar, 
And mastery o'er the mind he bore ; 
For meaner guilt, or heart less hard, 
Quail'd beneath Bertram's bold regard. 
And this felt Oswald, while in vain 
He strove, by many a winding train, 



To lure his sullen guest to show, 
Unask'd, the news he long'd to know, 
While on far other subject hung 
His heart, than falter'd from his tongue. 
Yet nought for that his guest did deign 
To note or spare his secret pain, 
But still, in stern and stubborn sort, 
Return'd him answer dark and short, 
Or started from the theme, to range 
In loose digression wild and strange, 
And forced the embarrass'd host to buy, 
By query close, direct reply. 

xr. 

A while he glozed upon the cause 
Of Commons, Covenant, and Laws, 
And Church Reform'd — but felt rebuke 
Beneath grim Bertram's sneering look, 
Then stammer'd — ' ' Has a field been 

fought ? 
Has Bertram news of battle brought ? 
For sure a soldier, famed so far 
In foreign fields for feats of war, 
On eve of fight ne'er left the host, 
Until the field were won and lost." 
" Here, in your towers by circling Tees, 
You, Oswald Wycliffe, rest at ease ; 
Why deem it strange that others come 
To share such safe and easy home, 
From fields where danger, death, and toil, 
Are the reward of civil broil ? " — 
1 ' Nay, mock not, friend ! since well we 

know 
The near advances of the foe, 
To mar our northern army's work, 
Encamp'd before beleaguer' d York ; 
Thy horse with valiant Fairfax lay, 
And must have fought — how went the 

day?" 

XII. 

"Wouldst hear the tale?— On Marston 

heath 5 
Met, front to front, the ranks of death ; 
Flourish'd the trumpets fierce, and now 
Fired was each eye, and flush 'd each brow * 
On either side loud clamours ring, 
' God and the Cause ! ' — ' God and the 

King ! ' 
Right English all, they rush'd to blows, 
With nought to win, and all to lose. 
I could havelaugh'd — butlack'dthe time — 
To see, in phrenesy sublime, 
How the fierce zealots fought and bled, 
For king or state, as humour led ; 
Some for a dream of public good, 
Some for church-tippet, gown, and hood, 



ROREBY. 



183 



Draining their veins, in death to claim 

A patriot's or a martyr's name. — 

Led Bertram Risingham the hearts, 

That counter'd there on adverse parts, 

No superstitious fool had I 

Sought El Dorados in the sky ! 

Chili had heard me through her states, 

And Lima oped her silver gates, 

Rich Mexico I had march'd through, 

And sack'd the splendours of Peru, 

Till sunk Pizarro's daring name, 

And, Cortez, thine, in Bertram's fame." — 

" Still from the purpose wilt thou stray ! 

Good gentle friend, how went the day?" — 

xrir. 
•• Good am I deem'd at trumpet-sound, 
And good where goblets dance the round, 
Though gentle ne'er was join'd, till now, 
With rugged Bertram's breast and brow. — 
But I resume. The battle's rage 
Was like the strife which currents wage, 
Where Orinoco, in his pride, 
Rolls to the main no tribute tide, 
But 'gainst broad ocean urges far 
A rival sea of roaring war ; 
While, in ten thousand eddies driven, 
The billows fling their foam to heaven, 
And the pale pilot seeks in vain, 
Where rolls the river, where the main. 
Even thus upon the bloody field, 
The eddying tides of conflict wheel'd 
Ambiguous, till that heart of flame, 
Hot Rupert, on our squadrons came, 
Hurling against our spears a line 
Of gallants, fiery as their wine ; 
Then ours, though stubborn in their zeal, 
In zeal's despite began to reel. 
What wouldst thou more ? — in tumult tost, 
Our leaders fell, our ranks were lost. 
A thousand men, who drew the sword 
For both the Houses and the Word, 
Preach'd forth from hamlet, grange, and 

down, 
To curb the crosier and the crown, 
Now, stark and stiff, lie stretch'd in gore, 
And ne'er shall rail at mitre more. — 
Thus fared it, when I left the fight, 
With the good Cause and Commons' 

right."— 

XIV. 

" Disastrous news ! " dark Wycliffe said ; 
Assumed despondence bent his head, 
While troubled joy was in his eye, 
The well-feign'd sorrow to belie. — 
" Disastrous news — when needed most, 
Told ye not that your chiefs were lost ? 



Complete the woeful tale and say, 
Who fell upon that fatal day ; 
What leaders of repute and name 
Bought by their death a deathless fame. 
If such my direst foeman's doom, 
My tears shall dew his honour'd tomb. — 
No answer?— Friend, of all our host, 
Thou know'st whom I should hate the 

most, 
Whom thou, too, once wert wont to hate, 
Yet leavest me doubtful of his fate." 
With look unmoved, — " Of friend or foe, 
Aught," answer' d Bertram, "would'slthou 

know, 
Demand in simple terms and plain, 
A soldier's answer shalt thou gain ; — 
For question dark, or riddle high, 
I have nor judgment nor reply." 

XV. 
The wrath his art and fear suppress'd, 
Now blazed at once in Wycliffe's breast ; 
And brave, from man so meanly born, 
Roused his hereditary scorn. 
' ' Wretch ! hast thou paid thy bloody 

debt? 
Philip of Mortham, lives he yet? 
False to thy patron or thine oath, 
Trait'rous or perjured, one or both. 
Slave 1 hast thou kept thy promise plight, 
To slay thy leader in the fight ? " 
Then from his seat the soldier sprung, 
And Wycliffe's hand he strongly wrung ; 
His grasp, as hard as glove of mail, 
Forced the red blood-drop from the nail — 
' 'A health ! " he cried ; and, ere he quaff' d, 
Flung from him Wycliffe's hand, and 

laugh'd : 
— "Now, Oswald Wycliffe, speaks thy 

heart ! 
Now play' st thou well thy genuine part I 
Worthy, but for thy craven fear, 
Like me to roam a buccanier. 
What reck'st thou of the Cause divine, 
If Mortham's wealth and lands be thine? 
What carest thou for beleaguer'd York, 
If this good hand have done its work? 
Or what, though Fairfax and his best 
Are reddening Marston's swarthy breast, 
If Philip Mortham with them lie, 
Lending his life-blood to the dye? — 
Sit, then! and as 'mid comrades free 
Carousing after victory, 
When tales are told of blood and fear, 
That boys and women shrink to hear, 
From point to point I frankly tell 
The deed of death as it befell, 



i84 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



XVI. 

" When purposed vengeance I forego, 
Term me a wretch, nor deem me foe ; 
And when an insult I forgive, 
Then brand me as a slave, and live! — 
Philip of Mortham is with those 
Whom Bertram Risingham calls foes ; 
Or whom more sure revenge attends, 
If number" d with ungrateful friends. 
As was his wont, ere battle glow'd, 
Along the marshall'd ranks he rode, 
And wore his vizor up the while. 
I saw his melancholy smile, 
When, full opposed in front, he knew 
Where Rokeby's kindred banner flew. 
'And thus, 'he said, 'will friends divide!' — 
I heard, and thought how, side by side, 
We two had turn'd the battle's tide, 
In many a well-debated field, 
Where Bertram's breast was Philip's shield. 
I thought on Darien's deserts pale, 
Where death bestrides the evening gale, 
How o'er my friend my cloak I threw, 
And fenceless faced the deadly dew ; 
I thought on Quariana's cliff, 
Where, rescued from our foundering skiff, 
Through the white breakers' wrath I bore 
Exhausted Mortham to the shore ; 
And when his side an arrow found, 
I suck'd the Indian's venom'd wound. 
These thoughts like torrents rush'd along, 
To sweep away my purpose strong. 

XVII. 

" Hearts are not flint, and flints are rent ; 
Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent. 
When Mortham bade me, as of yore, 
Be near him in the battle's roar, 
I scarcely saw the spears laid low, 
I scarcely heard the trumpets blow ; 
Lost was the war in inward strife, 
Debating Mortham' s death or life. 
'Twas then I thought, how, lured to come, 
As partner of his wealth and home, 
Years of piratic wandering o'er, 
With him I sought our native shore. 
But Mortham's lord grew far estranged 
From the bold heart with whom he ranged ; 
Doubts, horrors, superstitious fears, 
Sadden'd and dimm'd descending years ; 
The wily priests their victim sought, 
And damn'd each free-bom deed and 

thought. 
Then must I seek another home, 
My license shook his sober dome ; 
If gold he gave, in one wild day 
I revell'd thrice the sum away. 



An idle outcast then I stray'd, 
Unfit for tillage or for trade, 
Deem'd, like the steel of rusted lance, 
Useless and dangerous at once. 
The women fear'd my hardy look, 
At my approach the peaceful shook ; 
The merchant saw my glance of flame, 
And lock'd his hoards when Bertram 

came! 
Each child of coward peace kept far 
From the neglected son of war. 

XVIII. 
" But civil discord gave the call, 
And made my trade the trade of all. 
By Mortham urged, I came again 
His vassals to the fight to train. 
What guerdon waited on my care? 
I could not cant of creed or prayer ; 
Sour fanatics each trust obtain'd, 
And I, dishonour'd and disdain'd, 
Gain'd but the high and happy lot, 
In these poor arms to front the shot !— 
All this thou know'st, thy gestures tell ; 
Yet hear it o'er, and mark it well. 
'Tis honour bids me now relate 
Each circumstance of Mortham's fate. 



" Thoughts, from the tongue that slowly 

part, 
Glance quick as lightning through the 

heart. 
As my spur press'd my courser's side, 
Philip of Mortham's cause was tried, 
And, ere the charging squadrons mix'd, 
His plea was cast, his doom was fix'd. 
I watch'd him through the doubtful fray, 
That changed as March's moody day, 
Till, like a stream that bursts its bank, 
Fierce, Rupert thunder'd on our flank. 
'Twas then, 'midst tumult, smoke, and 

strife, 
Where each man fought for death or life, 
'Twas then I fired my petronel, 
And Mortham, steed and rider, fell. 
One dying look he upward cast, 
Of wrath and anguish — 'twas his last. 
Think not that there I stopp'd, to view 
What of the battle should ensue ; 
But ere I clear'd that bloody press, 
Our northern horse ran masterless ; 
Monckton and Mitton told the news, 
How troops of roundheads choked the 

Ouse, 
And many a bonny Scot, aghast, 
Spurring his palfrey northward, past, 



Cursing the day when zeal or meed 
First lured their Leslie o'er the Tweed. 6 
Yet when I reach'd the banks of Swale, 
Had rumour learn'd another tale; 
With his barb'd horse, fresh tidings say, 
Stout Cromwell has redeem'd the day -J 
But whether false the news, or true, 
Oswald, I reck as light as you." 

xx. 
Not then by Wycliffe might be shown, 
How his pride startled at the tone 
In which his complice, fierce and free, 
Asserted guilt's equality. 
In smoothest terms his speech he wove, 
Of endless friendship, faith, and love ; 
Promised and vow'd in courteous sort, 
But Bertram broke professions short. 
"Wycliffe, be sure not here I stay, 
No, scarcely till the rising day ; 
Warn'd by the legends of my youth, 
I trust not an associate's truth. 
Do not my native dales prolong 
Of Percy Rede the tragic song, 
Train'd forward to his bloody fall, 
By Girsonfield, that treacherous Hall? 8 
Oft, by the Pringle's haunted side, 
The shepherd sees his spectre glide. 
And near the spot that gave me name, 
The moated mound of Risingham, 
Where Reed upon her margin sees 
Sweet Woodburne's cottages and trees, 
Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 
An outlaw's image on the stone ;9 
Unmatch'd in strength, a giant he, 
With quiver'd back, and kirtled knee. 
Ask how he died, that hunter bold, 
The tameless monarch of the wold, 
And age and infancy can tell, 
By brother's treachery he fell. 
Thus warn'd by legends of my youth, 
I trust to no associate's truth. 
XXI. 

"When last we reason'd of this deed, 
Nought, I bethink me, was agreed, 
Or by what rule, or when, or where, 
The wealth of Mortham we should share. 
Then list, while I the portion name, 
Our differing laws give each to claim. 
Thou, vassal sworn to England's throne, 
Her rules of heritage must own ; 
They deal thee, as to nearest heir, 
Thy kinsman's lands and livings fair, 
And these I yield : — do thou revere 
The statutes of the Buccanier. 10 
Friend to the sea, and foeman sworn 
To all that on her waves are borne, 



When falls a mate in battle broil, 
His comrade heirs his portion'd spoil ; 
When dies in fight a daring foe, 
He claims his wealth who struck the blow; 
And either rule to me assigns 
Those spoils of Indian seas and mines, 
Hoarded in Mortham's caverns dark; 
Ingot of gold and diamond spark, 
Chalice and plate from churches borne, 
And gems from shrieking beauty torn, 
Each string of pearl, each silver bar, 
And all the wealth of western war. 
I go to search, where, dark and deep, 
Those Trans-atlantic treasures sleep. 
Thou must along — for, lacking thee, 
The heir will scarce find entrance free ; 
And then farewell. I haste to try 
Each varied pleasure wealth can buy ; 
When cloy'd each wish, those wars afford 
Fresh work for Bertram's restless sword." 

XXII. 

An undecided answer hung 
On Oswald's hesitating tongue. 
Despite his craft, he heard with awe 
This ruffian stabber fix the law ; 
While his own troubled passions veer 
Through hatred, joy, regret, and fear: — 
Joy'd at the soul that Bertram flies, 
He grudged the murderer's mighty prize, 
Hated his pride's presumptuous tone, 
And fear'd to wend with him alone. 
At length, that middle course to steer, 
To cowardice and craft so dear, 
" His charge," he said, "would ill allow 
His absence from the fortress now ; 
Wilfrid on Bertram should attend, 
His son should journey with his friend." 



Contempt kept Bertram's anger down, 
And wreathed to savage smile his frown. 
" Wilfrid, or thou — 'tis one to me, 
Whichever bears the golden key. 
Yet think not but I mark, and smile 
To mark, thy poor and selfish wile ! 
If injury from me you fear, 
What, Oswald Wycliffe, shields thee here? 
I'vesprungfrom walls more high than these, 
I've swam through deeper streams than 

Tees. 
Might I not stab thee, ere one yell 
Could rouse the distant sentinel? 
Start not — it is not my design, 
But, if it were, weak fence were thine ; 
And, trust me, that, in time of need, 
This hand hath done more desperate deed. 



tS6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Go, haste and rouse thy slumbering son ; 
Time calls, and I must needs be gone." 

XXIV. 

Nought of his sire's ungenerous part 
Polluted Wilfrid's gentle heart ; 
A heart too soft from early life 
To hold with fortune needful strife. 
His sire, while yet a hardier race 
Of numerous sons were Wycliffe's grace, 
On Wilfrid set contemptuous brand, 
For feeble heart and forceless hand ; 
But a fond mother's care and joy 
Were centred in her sickly boy. 
No touch of childhood's frolic mood 
Show'd the elastic spring of blood; 
Hour after hour he loved to pore 
On Shakspeare's rich and varied lore, 
But turn'd from martial scenes and light, 
From Falstaff s feast and Percy's fight, 
To ponder Jaques' moral strain, 
And muse with Hamlet, wise in vain ; 
And weep himself to soft repose 
O'er gentle Desdemona's woes. 

xxv. 
In youth he sought not pleasures found 
By youth in horse, and hawk, and hound, 
But loved the quiet joys that wake 
By lonely stream and silent lake ; 
In Deepdale's solitude to lie, 
Where all is cliff and copse and sky ; 
To climb Catcastle's dizzy peak, 
Or lone Pendragon's mound to seek. 
Such was his wont ; and there his dream 
Soar'd on some wild fantastic theme, 
Of faithful love, or ceaseless spring, 
Till Contemplation's wearied wing 
The enthusiast could no more sustain, 
And sad he sunk to earth again. 

XXVI. 

He loved — as many a lay can tell, 
Preserved in Stanmore's lonely dell; 
For his was minstrel's skill, he caught 
The art unteachable, untaught ; 
He loved — his soul did nature frame 
For love, and fancy nursed the flame ; 
Vainly he loved— for seldom swain 
Of such soft mould is loved again ; 
Silent he loved— in every gaze 
Was passion, friendship in his phrase. 
So mused his life away — till died 
His brethren all, their father's pride. 
Wilfrid is now the only heir 
Of all his stratagems and care, 
And destined, darkling, to pursue 
Ambition's maze by Oswald's clue. 



xxvir. 
Wilfrid must love and woo the bright 
Matilda, heir of Rokeby's knight. 
To love her was an easy hest, 
The secret empress of his breast ; 
To woo her was a harder task 
To one that durst not hope or ask. 
Yet all Matilda could, she gave 
In pity to her gentle slave ; 
Friendship, esteem, and fair regard, 
And praise, the poet's best reward ! 
She read the tales his taste approved, 
And sung the lays he framed or loved ; 
Yet, loth to nurse the fatal flame 
Of hopeless love in friendship's name, 
In kind caprice she oft withdrew 
The favouring glance to friendship due, 
Then grieved to see her victim's pain, 
And gave the dangerous smiles again. 

XXVIII. 

So did the suit of Wilfrid stand, 
When war's loud summons waked the land. 
Three banners, floating o'er the Tees, 
The woe-foreboding peasant sees ; 
In concert oft they braved of old 
The bordering Scot's incursion bold ; 
Frowning defiance in their pride, 
Their vassals now and lords divide. 
From his fair hall on Greta banks, 
The Knight of Rokeby led his ranks, 
To aid the valiant northern Earls, 
Who drew the sword for royal Charles. 
Mortham, by marriage near allied, — 
His sister had been Rokeby's bride, 
Though long before the civil fray, 
In peaceful grave the lady lay, — 
Philip of Mortham raised his band, 
And march'd at Fairfax's command ; 
While Wycliffe, bound by many a train 
Of kindred art with wily Vane, 
Less prompt to brave the bloody field, 
Made Barnard's battlements his shield, 
Secured them with his Lunedale powers, 
And for the Commons held the towers. 

XXIX. 

The lovely heir of Rokeby's Knight 
Waits in his halls the event of fight ; 
For England's war revered the claim 
Of every unprotected name, 
And spared, amid its fiercest rage, 
Childhood and womanhood and age. 
But Wilfrid, son to Rokeby's foe, 
Must the dear privilege forego, 
By Greta's side, in evening gray; 
To steal upon Matilda's way, 



&OKEBY. 



•8? 



Striving, with fond hypocrisy. 
For careless step and vacant eye ; 
Calming each anxious look and glance, 
To give the meeting all to chance, 
Or framing, as a fair excuse, 
The book, the pencil, or the muse : 
Something to give, to sing, to say, 
Some modern tale, some ancient lay. 
Then, while the long'd-for minutes la^t,- 
Ah ! minutes quickly over-past ! 
Recording each expression free, 
Of kind or careless courtesy, 
Each friendly look, each softer' tone, 
As food for fancy when alone. 
All this is o'er — but still unseen, 
Wilfrid may lurk in Eastwood green, 
To watch Matilda's wonted round, 
While springs his heart at every sound. 
She comes ! 'tis but a passing sight, 
Yet serves to cheat his weary night ; 
She comes not — He will wait the hour, 
When her lamp lightens in the tower ; 
'Tis something yet, if, as she past, 
Her shade is o'er the lattice cast. 
"What is my life, my hope?" he said; 
"Alas ! a transitory shade." 

XXX. 

Thus wore his life, though reason strove 
For mastery in vain with love, 
Forcing upon his thoughts the sum 
Of present woe and ills to come, 
While still he turn'd impatient ear 
From Truth's intrusive voice severe. 
Gentle, indifferent, and subdued, 
In all but this, unmoved he view'd 
Each outward change of ill and good : 
But Wilfrid, docile, soft, and mild, 
Was Fancy's spoil'd and wayward child ; 
In her bright car she bade him ride, 
With one fair form to grace his side, 
Or, in some wild and lone retreat, 
Flung her high spells around his seat, 
Bathed in her dews his languid head, 
Her fairy mantle o'er him spread, 
For him her opiates gave to flow, 
Which he who tastes can ne'er forego, 
And placed him in her circle, free 
From every stern reality, 
Till, to the Visionary, seem 
Her day-dreams truth, and truth a dream. 

XXXI. 

Woe to the youth whom Fancy gains, 
Winning from Reason's hand the reins, 
Pity and woe ! for such a mind 
Is soft, contemplative, and kind ; 



And woe to those who train such youth, 
And spare to press the rights of truth, 
The mind to strengthen and anneal, 
While on the stithy glows the steel ! 
O teach him, while your lessons last, 
To judge the present by the past ; 
Remind him of each wish pursued, 
How rich it glow'd with promised good ; 
Remind him of each wish enjoy'd, 
How soon his hopes possession cloy'd ! 
Tell him, we play unequal game, < 
Whene'er we shoot by Fancy's aim ; 
And, ere he strip him for her race, 
Show the conditions of the chase. 
Two sisters by the goal are set, 
Cold Disappointment and Regret ; 
One disenchants the winner's eyes, 
And strips of all its worth the prize. 
While one augments its gaudy show, 
More to enhance the loser's woe. 
The victor sees his fairy gold, 
Transform'd, when won, to drossy mold, 
But still the vanquish'd mourns his loss, 
And rues, as gold, that glittering dross. 

xxxir. 
More wouldst thou know— yon tower 

survey, 
Yon couch unpress'd since parting day, 
Yon untrimm'd lamp, whose yellow gleam 
Is mingling with the cold moonbeam, 
And yon thin form ! — the hectic red 
On his pale cheek unequal spread ; 
The head reclined, the loosen'd hair, 
The limbs relax'd, the mournful air. — 
See, he looks up ; — a woeful smile 
Lightens his woe-worn cheek a while, — ■ 
'Tis Fancy wakes some idle thought, 
To gild the ruin she has wrought : 
For, like the bat of Indian brakes, 
Her pinions fan the wound she makes, 
And soothing thus the dreamer's pain, 
She drinks his life-blood from the vein. 
Now to the lattice turn his eyes, 
Vain hope ! to see the sun arise. 
The moon with clouds is still o'ercast, 
Still howls by fits the stormy blast ; 
Another hour must wear away, 
Ere the East kindle into day, 
And hark ! to waste that weary hour, 
He tries the minstrel's magic power. 

XXXIII. 
SONG. 

To the Moon. 
Hail to thy cold and clouded beam, 
Pale pilgrim of the troubled sky! 



i S3 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



Hail, though themiststhat o'er theestream 
Lend to thy brow their sullen dye ! 

How should thy pure and peaceful eye 
Untroubled view our scenes below, 

Or how a tearless beam supply 
To light a world of war and woe ! 

Fair Queen ! I will not blame thee now, 

As once by Greta's fairy side 
Each little cloud that dimm'd thy brow 

Did then an angel's beauty hide. 
And of the shades I then could chide, 

Still are the thoughts to memory dear, 
For, while a softer strain I tried, 

They hid my blush, and calm'd my fear. 

Then did I swear thy ray serene 

Was form'd to light some lonely dell, 
By two fond lovers only seen, 

Reflected from the crystal well, 
Or sleeping on their mossy cell, 

Or quivering on the lattice bright, 
Or glancing on their couch, to tell 

How swiftly wanes the summer night ! 

XXXIV. 
He starts — a step at this lone hour ! 
A voice! — his father seeks the tower, 
With haggard look and troubled sense, 
Fresh from his dreadful conference. 
" Wilfrid ! — what, not to sleep address'd? 
Thou hast no cares to chase thy rest. 
Mortham has fall'n on Marston-moor ; 
Bertram brings warrant to secure 
His treasures, bought by spoil and blood, 
For the State's use and public good. 
The menials will thy voice obey ; 
Let his commission have its way, 
In every point, in every word." — 
Then, in a whisper, — " Take thy sword ! 
Bertram is — what I must not tell. 
I hear his hasty step — farewell !" 



CANTO SECOND. 



I. 



Far in the chambers of the west, 
The gale had sigh'd itself to rest ; 
The moon was cloudless now and clear, 
But pale, and soon to disappear. 
The thin gray clouds wax dimly light 
On Brusleton and Houghton height ; 
And the rich dale, that eastward lay, 
Waited the wakening touch of day, 
To give its woods and cultured plain, 
And towers and spires, to light again. 



But, westward, Stanmore's shapeless swell, 
And Lunedale wild, and Kelton-fell, 
And rock-begirdled Gilmanscar, 
And Arkingarth, lay dark afar, 
While, as a livelier twilight falls, 
Emerge proud Barnard's banner'd walls 
High crown'd he sits, in dawning pale, 
The sovereign of the lovely vale. 

ir. 
What prospects, from his watch-tower high, 
Gleam gradual on the warder's eye ! — 
Far sweeping to the east, he sees 
Down his deep woods the course of Tees, 11 
And tracks his wanderings by the steam 
Of summer vapours from the stream ; 
And ere he paced his destined hour 
By Brackenbury's dungeon-tower, 
These silver mists shall melt away, 
And dew the woods with glittering spray, 
Then in broad lustre shall be shown 
That mighty trench of living stone, 
And each huge trunk that, from the side, 
Reclines him o'er the darksome tide, 
Where Tees, full many a fathom low, 
Wears with his rage no common foe ; 
For pebbly bank, nor sand-bed here, 
Nor clay-mound, checks his fierce career, 
Condemn'd to mine a channell'd way, 
O'er solid sheets of marble gray. 

in. 
Nor Tees alone, in dawning bright, 
Shall rush upon the ravish'd sight ; 
But many a tributary stream 
Each from its own dark dell shall gleam ; 
Staindrop, who, from her sylvan bowers, 
Salutes proud Raby's battled towers ; 
The rural brook of Egliston, 
And Balder, named from Odin's son ; 
And Greta, to whose banks ere long 
We lead the lovers of the song ; 
And silver Lune, from Stanmore wild, 
And fairy Thorsgill's murmuring child, 
And last and least, but loveliest still, 
Romantic Deepdale's slender rill. 
Who in that dim-wood glen hath stray'd, 
Yet long'd for Roslin's magic glade ? 
Who, wandering there, hath sought to 

change, 
Even for that vale so stern and strange, 
Where Cartland's Crags, fantastic rent, 
Through her green copse like spires are 

sent? 
Yet, Albin, yet the praise be thine, 
Thy scenes and story to combine ! 
Thou bid'st him, who by Roslin strays, 
List to the deeds of other days ; 



ROKEBY. 



189 



'Mid Cartland's Crags thou show'st the 

cave, 
The refuge of thy champion brave ; 
Giving each rock its storied tale, 
Pouring a lay for every dale, 
Knitting, as with a moral band, 
Thy native legends with thy land, 
To lend each scene the interest high 
Which genius beams from Beauty's eye. 

IV. 

Bertram awaited not the sight 

Which sun-rise shows from Barnard's 

height, 
But from the towers, preventing day, 
With Wilfrid took his early way, 
While misty dawn, and moonbeam pale, 
Still mingled in the silent dale. 
By Barnard's bridge of stately stone, 
The southern bank of Tees they won ; 
Their winding path then eastward cast, 
And Eglifton's gray ruins pass'd ; I2 
Each on his own deep visions bent, 
Silent and sad they onward went. 
Well may you think that Bertram's mood, 
To Wilfrid savage seem'd and rude ; 
Well may you think bold Risingham 
Held Wilfrid trivial, poor, and tame ; 
And small the intercourse, I ween, 
Such uncongenial souls between. 



Stern Bertram shunn'd the nearer way, 
Through Rokeby's park and chase that lay, 
And, skirting high the valley's ridge, 
They cross'd by Greta's ancient bridge, 
Descending where her waters wind 
Free for a space and unconfined, 
As, 'scaped from Brignall's dark-wood 

glen, 
She seeks wild Mortham's deeper den. 
There, as his eye glanced o'er the mound, 
Raised by that Legion J 3 long renown'd, 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, 
Of pious, faithful, conquering fame, 
"Stern sons of war!" sad Wilfrid sigh'd, 
" Behold the boast of Roman pride ! 
What now of all your toils are known ? 
A grassy trench, a broken stone !" — 
This to himself; for moral strain 
To Bertram were address'd in vain. 



Of different mood, a deeper sigh 
Awoke, when Rokeby's turrets high 1 * 
Were northward in the dawning seen 
To rear them o'er the thicket green. 



O then, though Spenser's self had stray'd 
Beside him through the lovely glade, 
Lending his rich luxuriant glow 
Of fancy, all its charms to show, 
Pointing the stream rejoicing free, 
As captive set at liberty, 
Flashing her sparkling waves abroad, 
And clamouring joyful on her road ; 
Pointing where, up the sunny banks, 
The trees retire in scatterd ranks, 
Save where, advanced before the rest, 
On knoll or hillock rears his crest, 
Lonely and huge, the giant Oak, 
As champions, when their band is broke, 
Stand forth to guard the rearward post, 
The bulwark of the scatter'd host — 
All this, and more, might Spenser say, 
Yet waste in vain his magic lay, 
While Wilfrid eyed the distant tower, 
Whose lattice lights Matilda's bower. 

VII. 
The open vale is soon passed o'er, 
Rokeby, though nigh, is seen no more; 
Sinking 'mid Greta's thickets deep, 
A wild and darker course they keep, 
A stern and lone, yet lovely road, 
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode ! r 5 
Broad shadows o'er their passage fell, 
Deeper and narrower grew the dell ; 
It seem'd some mountain, rent and riven, 
A channel for the stream had given, 
So high the cliffs of limestone gray 
Hung beetling o'er the torrent's way, 
Yielding, along their rugged base, 
A flinty footpath's niggard space, 
Where he, who winds 'twixt rock and w r ave, 
May hear the headlong torrent rave, 
And like a steed in frantic fit, 
That flings the froth from curb and bit, 
May view her chafe her waves to spray, 
O'er every rock that bars her way, 
Till foam-globes on her eddies ride, 
Thick as the schemes of human pride 
That down life's current drive amain, 
As frail, as frothy, and as vain ! 

VIII. 

The cliffs that rear their haughty head 
High o'er the river's darksome bed, 
Were now all naked, wild, and gray, 
Now waving all with greenwood spray ; 
Here trees to every crevice clung, 
And o'er the dell their branches hung ; 
And there, all splinter'd and uneven, 
The shiver' d rocks ascend to heaven ; 
Oft, too, the ivy swath' d their breast, 
And wreathed its garland round their crest, 



190 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Or from the spires bade loosely flare 
Its tendrils in the middle air. 
As pennons wont to wave of old 
0"er the high feast of Baron bold, 
When revell'd load the feudal rout, 
And the arch'd halls return'd their shout ; 
Such and more wild is Greta's roar, 
And such the echoes from her shore. 
And so the ivied banners' gleam, 
Waved wildly o'er the brawling stream. 

IX. 

Now from the stream the rocks recede, 
But leave between no sunny mead, 
No, nor the spot of pebbly sand, 
Oft found by such a mountain strand ; 
Forming such warm and dry retreat, 
As fancy deems the lonely seat, 
Where hermit wandering from his cell, 
His rosary might love to tell. 
But here, 'twixt rock and river, grew 
A dismal grove of sable yew, 
With whose sad tints were mingled seen 
The blighted fir's sepulchral green. 
Seem'd that the trees their shadows cast, 
The earth that nourish'd them to blast ; 
For never knew that swarthy grove 
The verdant hue that fairies love ; 
Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower, 
Arose within its baleful bower : 
The dank and sable earth receives 
Its only carpet from the leaves, 
That, from the withering branches cast, 
Bestrew' d the ground with every blast. 
Though now the sun was o'er the hill, 
In this dark spot 'twas twilight still, 
Save that on Greta's farther side 
Some straggling beams through copse- 
wood glide ; 
And wild and savage contrast made 
That dingle's deep and funeral shade, 
With the bright tints of early day, 
Which, glimmering through the ivy spray, 
On the opposing summit lay. 



The lated peasant shunn'd the dell ; 
For Superstition wont to tell 
Of many a grisly sound and sight, 
Scaring its path at dead of night. 
When Christmas logs blaze high and 

wide, 
Such wonders speed the festal tide ; 
While Curiosity and Fear, 
Pleasure and Pain, sit crouching near, 
Till childhood's cheek no longer glows, 
And village maidens lose the rose. 



The thrilling interest rises higher, 
The circle closes nigh and nigher, 
And shuddering glance is cast behind, 
As louder moans the wintry wind. 
Believe, that fitting scene was laid 
For such wild tales in Mortham glade ; 
For who had seen, on Greta's side, 
By that dim light fierce Bertram stride, 
In such a spot, at such an hour, — 
If touch'd by Superstition's power, 
Might well have deem'd that Hell had 

given 
A murderer's ghost to upper Heaven, 
While Wilfrid's form had seem'd to glide 
Like his pale victim by his side. 



Nor think to village swains alone 
Are these unearthly terrors known ; 
For not to rank nor sex confined 
Is this vain ague of the mind : 
Hearts firm as steel, as marble hard, 
'Gainst faith, and love, and pity barr'd, 
Have quaked, like aspen leaves in May, 
Beneath its universal sway. 
Bertram had listed many a tale 
Of wonder in his native dale, 
That in his secret soul retain'd 
The credence they in childhood gain'd: 
Nor less his wild adventurous youth 
Believed in every legend's truth ; 
Learn'd when, beneath the tropic gale, 
Full swell'd the vessel's steady sail, 
And the broad Indian moon her light 
Pour'd on the watch of middle night, 
When seamen love to hear and tell 
Of portent, prodigy, and spell : 
What gales are sold on Lapland's shore, 
How whistle rash bids tempests roar, l6 
Of witch, of mermaid, and of sprite, 
Of Erick's cap and Elmo's light ; x ? 
Or of that Phantom Ship, whose form 
Shoots like a meteor through the storm ; 
When the dark scud comes driving hard 
And lower'd is every topsail yard, 
And canvas, wove in earthly looms, 
No more to brave the storm presumes ! 
Then, 'mid the war of sea and sky, 
Top and top-gallant hoisted high, 
Full spread and crowded every sail, 
The Demon Frigate braves the gale ; l8 
And well the doom'd spectators know 
The harbinger of wreck and woe. 



Then, too, were told, in stifled tone, 
Marvels and omens all their own ; 



ROKEBY. 



191 



How, by some desert isle or key,*9 
Where Spaniards wrought their cruelty, 
Or where the savage pirate's mood 
Repaid it home in deeds of blood, 
Strange nightly sounds of woe and fear 
Appall'd the listening Buccanier, 
Whose light-arm'd shallop anchor'd lay 
In ambush by the lonely bay. 
The groan of grief, the shriek of pain, 
Ring from the moonlight groves of cane ; 
The fierce adventurer's heart they scare, 
Who wearies memory for a prayer, 
Curses the road-stead, and with gale 
Of early morning lifts the sail, 
To give, in thirst of blood and prey, 
A legend for another bay. 

XIII. 

Thus, as a man, a youth, a child, 
Train'd in the mystic and the wild, 
With this on Bertram's soul at times 
Rush'd a dark feeling of his crimes ; 
Such to his troubled soul their form, 
As the pale Death-ship to the storm, 
And such their omen dim and dread, 
As shrieks and voices of the dead. — 
That pang, whose transitory force 
Hover'd 'twixt horror and remorse ; 
That pang, perchance, his bosom press'd, 
As Wilfrid sudden he address'd : — 
"Wilfrid, this glen is never trode 
Until the sun rides high abroad ; 
Yet twice have I beheld to-day 
A Form, that seem'd to dog our way ; 
Twice from my glance it seem'd to flee, 
And shroud itself by cliff or tree. 
How think'st thou? — Is our path way -laid? 
Or hath thy sire my trust betray' d? 

If so" Ere, starting from his dream, 

That turn'd upon a gentler theme, 
Wilfrid had roused him to reply, 
Bertram sprung forward, shouting high, 
"Whate'er thou art, thou now shalt 

stand ! " 
And forth he darted, sword in hand. 

XIV. 

As bursts the levin, in his wrath 

He shot him down the sounding path ; 

Rock, wood, and stream, rang wildly out, 

To his loud step and savage shout. 

Seems that the object of his race 

Hath scaled the cliffs ; his frantic chase 

Sidelong he turns, and now 'tis bent 

Right up the rock's tall battlement ; 

Straining each sinew to ascend, 

Foot, hand, and knee, their aid must lend. 



Wilfrid, all dizzy with dismay, 

Views from beneath his dreadful way : 

Now to the oak's warp'd roots he clings, 

Now trusts his weight to ivy strings ; 

Now, like the wild-goat, must he dare 

An unsupported leap in air ; 

Hid in the shrubby rain-course now, 

You mark him by the crashing bough, 

And by his corslet's sullen clank, 

And by the stones spurn'd from the bank. 

And by the hawk scared from her nest, 

And ravens croaking o'er their guest, 

Who deem his forfeit limbs shall pay 

The tribute of his bold essay. 

xv. 
See ! he emerges ! — desperate now 
All farther course — Yon beetling brow, 
In craggy nakedness sublime, 
What heart or foot shall dare to climb? 
It bears no tendril for his clasp, 
Presents no angle to his grasp : 
Sole stay his foot may rest upon, 
Is yon earth-bedded jetting stone. 
Balanced on such precarious prop, 
He strains his grasp to reach the top. 
Just as the dangerous stretch he makes, 
By Heaven, his faithless footstool shakes ! 
Beneath his tottering bulk it bends, 
It sways, . . it loosens, . . it descends ! 
And downward holds its headlong way, 
Crashing o'er rock and copsewood spray. 
Loud thunders shake the echoing dell !— 
Fell it alone? — alone it fell. 
Just on the very verge of fate, 
The hardy Bertram's falling weight 
He trusted to his sinewy hands, 
And on the top unharm'd he stands ! — 

XVI. 

Wilfrid a safer path pursued ; 
At intervals where, roughly hew'd, 
Rude steps ascending from the dell 
Render'd the cliffs accessible. 
By circuit slow he thus attain'd 
The height that Risingham had gain'd, 
And when he issued from the wood, 
Before the gate of Mortham stood. 30 
'Twas a fair scene ! the sunbeam lay 
On battled tower and portal gray : 
And from the grassy slope he sees 
The Greta flow to meet the Tees ; 
Where, issuing from her darksome bed, 
She caught the morning's eastern red, 
And through the softening vale below 
Roll'd her bright waves, in rosy glow, 
All blushing to her bridal bed, 
Like some shy maid in convent bred ; 



192 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



While linnet, lark, and blackbird gay, 
Sing forth her nuptial roundelay. 

XVII. 

'Twas sweetly sung that roundelay : 
That summer morn shone blithe and gay ; 
But morning beam, and wild-bird's call, 
Awaked not Mortham's silent hall. 
No porter, by the low-brow'd gate, 
Took in the wonted niche his seat ; 
To the paved court no peasant drew ; 
Waked to their toil no menial crew ; 
The maiden's carol was not heard, 
As to her morning task she fared : 
In the void offices around, 
Rung not a hoof, nor bay'd a hound ; 
Nor eager steed, with shrilling neigh, 
Accused the lagging groom's delay ; 
Untrimm'd, undress'd, neglected now, 
Was alley'd walk and orchard bough ; 
All spoke the master's absent care, 
All spoke neglect and disrepair. 
South of the gate an arrow flight, 
Two mighty elms their limbs unite, 
As if a canopy to spread 
O'er the lone dwelling of the dead ; 
For their huge boughs in arches bent 
Above a massive monument, 
Carved o'er in ancient Gothic wise, 
With many a scutcheon and device ; 
There, spent with toil and sunk in gloom, 
Bertram stood pondering by the tomb. 

XVIII. 

" It vanish'd, like a flitting ghost! 
Behind this tomb," he said, " 'twas lost — 
This tomb, where oft I deem'd lies stored 
Of Mortham's Indian wealth the hoard. 
'Tis true, the aged servants said 
Here his lamented wife is laid ; 
But weightier reasons may be guess'd 
For their lord's strict and stern behest, 
That none should on his steps intrude, 
Whene'er he sought this solitude. — 
An ancient mariner I knew, 
What time I sail'd with Morgan's crew, 
Who oft, 'mid our carousals, spake 
Of Raleigh, Frobisher, and Drake ; 
Adventurous hearts ! who barter'd, bold, 
Their English steel for Spanish gold. 
Trust not, would his experience say, 
Captain or comrade with your prey ; 
But seek some charnel, when, at full, 
The moon gilds skeleton and skull : 
There dig, and tomb your precious heap, 
And bid the dead your treasure keep ; 2I 
Sure stewards they, if fitting spell 
Their service to the task compel. 



Lacks there such charnel ? — kill a slave, 
Or prisoner, on the treasure-grave ; 
And bid his discontented ghost 
Stalk nightly on his lonely post. — 
Such was his tale. Its truth, I ween, 
Is in my morning vision seen." 

XIX. 

Wilfrid, who scorn'd the legend wild, 
In mingled mirth and pity smiled, 
Much marvelling that a breast so bold 
In such fond tale belief should hold ; 
But yet of Bertram sought to know 
The apparition's form and show. — 
The power within the guilty breast, 
Oft vanquish'd, never quite suppress'd, 
That unsubdued and lurking lies 
To take the felon by surprise, 
And force him, as by magic spell, 
In his despite his guilt to tell, 22 — 
That power in Bertram's breast awoke ; 
Scarce conscious he was heard, he spoke : 
" 'Twas Mortham's form, from foot to 

head ! 
His morion, with the plume of red, 
His shape, his mien — 'twas Mortham, right 
As when I slew him in the fight." — 
"Thou slay him? — thou?" — With con- 
scious start 
He heard, then mann'd his haughty heart— 
" I slew him ? — I ! — I had forgot 
Thou, stripling, knew'st not of the plot. 
But it is spoken — nor will I 
Deed done, or spoken word, deny. 
I slew him ; I ! for thankless pride ; 
'Twas by this hand that Mortham died." 

XX. 

Wilfrid, of gentle hand and heart, 

Averse to every active part, 

But most averse to martial broil, 

From danger shrunk, and turn'd from toil, 

Yet the meek lover of the lyre 

Nursed one brave spark of noble fire, 

Against injustice, fraud, or wrong, 

His blood beat high, his hand wax' d strong. 

Not his the nerves that could sustain 

Unshaken, danger, toil, and pain ; 

But, when that spark blazed forth to flame, 

He rose superior to his frame. 

And now it came, that generous mood : 

And, in full current of his blood, 

On Bertram he laid desperate hand, 

Placed firm his foot, and drew his brand. 

' ' Should every fiend, to whom thou'rt sold, 

Rise in thine aid, I keep my hold. — 

Arouse there, ho ! take spear and sword ! 

Attach the murderer of your Lord ! " 



ROKEBY. 



193 



XXI. 

A moment, fix'd as by a spell, 

Stood Bertram — It seem'd miracle, 

That one so feeble, soft, and tame 

Set grasp on warlike Risingham. 

But when he felt a feeble stroke, 

The fiend within the ruffian woke ! 

To wrench the sword from Wilfrid's hand, 

To dash him headlong on the sand, 

Was but one moment 3 work, — one more 

Had drench'd the blade in Wilfrid's gore ; 

But, in the instant it arose, 

To end his life, his love, his woes, 

A warlike form, that mark'd the scene, 

Presents his rapier sheathed between, 

Parries the fast-descending blow, 

And steps 'twixt Wilfrid and his foe ; 

Nor then unscabbarded his brand, 

But, sternly pointing with his hand, 

With monarch's voice forbade the fight, 

And motion'd Bertram from his sight. 

" Go, and repent," he said, " while time 

Is given thee ; add not crime to crime." 

XXII. 

Mute, and uncertain, and amazed, 

As on a vision Bertram gazed ! 

'Twas Mortham's bearing, bold and high, 

His sinewy frame, his falcon eye, 

His look and accent of command, 

The martial gesture of his hand, 

His stately form, spare-built and tall, 

His war-bleach'd locks — 'twas Mortham 

all. 
Through Bertram's dizzy brain career 
A thousand thoughts, and all of fear ; 
His wavering faith received not quite 
The form he saw as Mortham's sprite, 
But more he fear'd it, if it stood 
His lord, in living flesh and blood . — 
What spectre can the charnel send, 
So dreadful as an injured friend ? 
Then, too, the habit of command, 
Used by the leader of the band, 
When Risingham, for many a day, 
Had march'd and fought beneath his sway, 
Tamed him — and, with reverted face, 
Backwards he bore his sullen pace ; 
Oft stopp'd, and oft on Mortham stared, 
And dark as rated mastiff glared ; 
But when the tramp of steeds was heard, 
Plunged in the glen, and disappear' d ; — 
Nor longer there the warrior stood, 
Retiring eastward through the wood ; 
But first to Wilfrid warning gives, 
" Tell thou to none that Mortham lives." 



XXIII. 

Still rung these words in Wilfrid's ear, 
Hinting he knew not what of fear ; 
When nearer came the coursers' tread, 
And, with his father at their head, 
Of horsemen arm'd a gallant power 
Rein'd up their steeds before the tower. 
' ' Whence these pale looks, my son ? " he 

said : 
"Where's Bertram? — Why that naked 

blade ? " 
Wilfrid ambiguously replied, 
(For Mortham's charge his honour tied,); 
" Bertram is gone — the villain's word 
Avouch'd him murderer of his lord ! 
Even now we fought —but, when your tread 
Announced you nigh, the felon fled." 
In Wycliffe's conscious eye appear 
A guilty hope, a guilty fear ; 
On his pale brow the dewdrop broke, 
And his lip quiver'd as he spoke : — 

XXIV. 

" A murderer ! — Philip Mortham died 
Amid the battle's wildest tide. 
Wilfrid, or Bertram raves, or you ! 
Yet, grant such strange confession true, 
Pursuit were vain — let him fly far — 
Justice must sleep in civil war." 
A gallant. Youth rode near his side, 
Brave Rokeby's page, in battle tried ; 
That morn, an embassy of weight 
He brought to Barnard's castle gate, 
And follow'd now in Wycliffe's train, 
An answer for his lord to gain. 
His steed, whose arch'd and sable neck 
An hundred wreaths of foam bedeck, 
Chafed not against the curb more high 
Than he at Oswald's cold reply ; 
He bit his lip, implored his saint, 
(His the old faith)— then burst restraint. 

XXV. 

' ' Yes ! I beheld his bloody fall 
By that base traitor's dastard ball, 
Just when I thought to measure sword, 
Presumptuous hope ! with Mortham'slord. 
And shall the murderer 'scape, who slew 
His leader, generous, brave, and true ? 
Escape, while on the dew you trace 
The marks of his gigantic pace ? 
No ! ere the sun that dew shall dry, 
False Risingham shall yield or die.— 
Ring out the castle 'larum bell ! 
Arouse the peasants with the knell ! 
Meantime disperse — ride, gallants, ride ! 
Beset the wood on every side. 

J J 



194 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But if among you one there be, 
That honours Mortham's memory, 
Let him dismount and follow me 1 
Else on your crests sit fear and shame, 
And foul suspicion dog your name 1 " 

xxv r. 
Instant to earth young Redmond sprung ; 
Instant on earth the harness rung 
Of twenty men of Wycliffe's band, 
Who waited not their lord's command. 
Redmond his spurs from buskins drew, 
His mantle from his shoulders threw, 
His pistols in his belt he placed, 
The green-wood gain'd, the footsteps 

traced, 
Shouted like huntsman to his hounds, 
" To cover, hark !" — and in he bounds. 
Scarce heard was Oswald's anxious cry, 
"Suspicion ! yes — pursue him, fly — 
But venture not, in useless strife, 
On ruffian desperate of his life, 
Whoever finds him, shoot him dead! 
Five hundred nobles for his head ! " 

XXVII. 

The horsemen gallop'd, to make good 
Each path that issued from the wood. 
Loud from the thickets rung the shout 
Of Redmond and his eager rout ! 
With them was Wilfrid, stung with ire, 
And envying Redmond's martial fire, 
And emulous of fame. — But where 
Is Oswald, noble Mortham's heir? 
He, bound by honour, law, and faith, 
Avenger of his kinsman's death? — 
Leaning against the elmin tree, 
With drooping head and slacken'd knee, 
And clenched teeth, and close-clasp'd 

hands, 
In agony of soul he stands ! 
His downcast eye on earth is bent, 
His soul to every sound is lent ; 
For in each shout that cleaves the air, 
May ring discovery and despair. 

XXVIII. 
What 'vail'd it him, that brightly play'd 
The morning sun on Mortham's glade? 
All seems in giddy round to ride, 
Like objects on a stormy tide, 
Seen eddying by the moonlight dim, 
Imperfectly to sink and swim. 
What 'vail'd it, that the fair domain, 
Its battled mansion, hill, and plain, 
On which the sun so brightly shone, 
Envied so long, was now his own ? 
The lowest dungeon, in that hour, 
Of Brackenbury's dismal tower, 2 3 



Had been his choice, could such a doom 
Have open'd Mortham's bloody tomb] 
Forced, too, to turn unwilling ear 
To each surmise of hope or fear, 
Murmur' d among the rustics round, 
Who gather' d at the 'larum sound ; 
He dared not turn his head away, 
E'en to look up to heaven to pray, 
Or call on hell in bitter mood, 
For one sharp death-shot from the wood ! 

XXIX. 

At length, o'erpast that dreadful space, 
Back straggling came the scatter'd chase : 
Jaded and weary, horse and man, 
Return'd the troopers one by one. 
Wilfrid, the last, arrived to say, 
All trace was lost of Bertram's way, 
Though Redmond still, up Brignall wood, 
The hopeless quest in vain pursued. — 
O, fatal doom of human race! 
What tyrant passions passions chase ! 
Remorse from Oswald's brow is gone, 
Avarice and pride resume their throne ; 
The pang of instant terror by, 
They dictate thus their slave's reply : — 

XXX. 

" Ay — let him range like hasty hound! 

And if the grim wolf's lair be found, 

Small is my care how goes the game 

With Redmond or with Risingham. — 

Nay, answer not, thou simple boy ! 

Thy fair Matilda, all so coy 

To thee, is of another mood 

To that bold youth of Erin's blood. 

Thy ditties will she freely praise, 

And pay thy pains with courtly phrase ; 

In a rough path will oft command — 

Accept at least — thy friendly hand ; 

His she avoids, or, urged and pray'd, 

Unwilling takes his proffer'd aid, 

While conscious passion plainly speaks 

In downcast look and blushing cheeks. 

Whene'er he sings, will she glide nigh, 

And all her soul is in her eye ; 

Yet doubts she still to tender free 

The wonted words of courtesy. 

These are strong signs!— yet wherefore 

sigh, 
And wipe, effeminate, thine eye? 
Thine shall she be, if thou attend 
The counsels of thy sire and friend. 

XXXI. 

" Scarce wert thou gone, when peep of 

light 
Brought genuine news of Marston's fight. 



ROKEB Y. 



*95 



Brave Cromwell turn'd the doubtful tide, 

And conquest bless'd the rightful side ; 

Three thousand cavaliers lie dead, 

Rupert and that bold Marquis fled ; 

Nobles and knights, so proud of late, 

Must fine for freedom and estate. 

Of these, committed to my charge, 

Is Rokeby, prisoner at large ; 

Redmond, his page, arrived to say 

He reaches Barnard's towers to-day. 

Right heavy shall his ransom be, 

Unless that maid compound with thee \ 2 * 

Go to her now — be bold of cheer, 

While her soul floats 'twixt hope and fear; 

It is the very change of tide, 

When best the female heart is tried — 

Pride, prejudice, and modesty, 

Are in the current swept to sea ; 

And the bold swain, who plies his oar, 

May lightly row his bark to shore." 



CANTO THIRD. 



The hunting tribes of air and earth 
Respect the brethren of their birth ; 
Nature, who loves the claim of kind, 
Less cruel chase to each assign'd. 
The falcon, poised on soaring wing, 
Watches the wild-duck by the spring ; 
The slow-hound wakes the fox's lair ; 
The greyhound presses on the hare ; 
The eagle pounces on the lamb ; 
The wolf devours the fleecy dam : 
Even tiger fell, and sullen bear, 
Their likeness and their lineage spare ; 
Man, only, mars kind Nature's plan, 
And turns the fierce pursuit on man ; 
Plying war's desultory trade, 
Incursion, flight, and ambuscade, 
Since Nimrod, Cush's mighty son, 
At first the bloody game begun. 

11. 
The Indian, prowling for his prey, 
Who hears the settlers track his way, 2 5 
And knows in distant forest far 
Camp his red brethren of the war ; 
He, when each double and disguise 
To baffle the pursuit he tries, 
Low crouching now his head to hide, 
Where swampy streams through rushes 

glide, 
Now covering with the wither'd leaves 
The foot-prints that the dew receives : 



He, skill'd in every sylvan guile, 
Knows not, nor tries, such various wile, 
As Risingham, when on the wind 
Arose the loud pursuit behind. 
In Redesdale his youth had heard 
Each art her wily dalesmen dared, 
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high, 
To bugle rung and blood-hound's cry, 26 
Announcing Jedwood-axe and spear, 
And Lid'sdale riders in the rear ; 
And well his venturous life had proved 
The lessons that his childhood loved. 



Oft had he shown in climes afar, 
Each attribute of roving war ; 
The sharpen' d ear, the piercing eye, 
The quick resolve in danger nigh ; 
The speed, that in the flight or chase, 
Outstripped the Chanb's rapid race ; 
The steady brain, the sinewy limb, 
To leap, to climb, to dive, to swim ; 
The iron frame, inured to bear 
Each dire inclemency of air, 
Nor less confirm'd to undergo 
Fatigue's faint chill, and famine's throe. 
These arts he proved, his life to save, 
In peril oft by land and wave, 
On Arawaca's desert shore, 
Or where La Plata's billows roar, 
When oft the sons of vengeful Spain 
Track'd the marauder's steps in vain. 
These arts, in Indian warfare tried, 
Must save him now by Greta's side. 

IV. 

'Twas then, in hour of utmost need, 
He proved his courage, art, and speed. 
Now slow he stalk'd with stealthy pace, 
Now started forth in rapid race, 
Oft doubling back in mazy train, 
To blind the trace the dews retain ; 
Now clomb the rocks projecting high, 
To baffle the pursuer's eye ; 
Now sought the stream, whose brawling 

sound 
The echo of his footsteps drown'd. 
But if the forest verge he nears, 
There trample steeds, and glimmer spears ; 
If deeper down the copse he drew, 
He heard the rangers' loud halloo, 
Beating each cover while they came, 
As if to start the sylvan game. 
'Twas then — like tiger close beset 
At every pass with toil and net, 
'Counter'd, where'er he turns his glare, 
By clashing arms and torches' flare, 



196 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Who meditates, with furious bound, 
To burst on hunter, horse, and hound, — 
'Twas then that Bertram's soul arose, 
Prompting to rush upon his foes : 
But as that crouching tiger, cow'd 
By brandish' d steel and shouting crowd, 
Retreats beneath the jungle's shroud, 
Bertram suspends his purpose stern, 
And couches in the brake and fern, 
Hiding his face, lest foemen spy, 
The sparkle of his swarthy eye. 3 ? 



Then Bertram might the bearing trace 
Of the bold youth who led the chase ; 
Who paused to list for every sound, 
Climb every height to look around, 
Then rushing on with naked sword, 
Each dingle's bosky depths explored. 
'Twas Redmond — by the azure eye ; 
'Twas Redmond — by the locks that fly 
Disorder'd from his glowing cheek ; 
Mien, face, and form, young Redmond 

speak. 
A form more active, light, and strong, 
Ne'er shot the ranks of war along ; 
The modest, yet the manly mien, 
Might grace the court of maiden queen : 
A face more fair you well might find, 
For Redmond's knew the sun and wind, 
Nor boasted, from their tinge when free, 
The charm of regularity ; 
But every feature had the power 
To aid the expression of the hour : 
Whether gay wit, and humour sly, 
Danced laughing in his light-blue eye ; 
Or bended brow, and glance of fire, 
And kindling cheek, spoke Erin's ire ; 
Or soft and sadden'd glances show 
Her ready sympathy with woe ; 
Or in that wayward mood of mind, 
When various feelings are combined, 
When joy and sorrow mingle near, 
And hope's bright wings are check'd by 

fear, 
And rising doubts keep transport down, 
And anger lends a short-lived frown ; 
In that strange mood which maids approve 
Even when they dare not call it love ; 
With every change his features play'd 
As aspens show the light and shade. 

VI. 

Well Risingham young Redmond knew : 
And much he marvell'd that the crew, 
Roused to revenge bold Mortham dead, 
Were by that Mortham's foeman led ; 



For never felt his soul the woe, 
That wails a generous foeman low, 
Far less that sense of justice strong, 
That wreaks a generous foeman's wrong. 
But small his leisure now to pause ; 
Redmond is first, whate'er the cause : 
And twice that Redmond came so near 
Where Bertram couch'd like hunted deer, 
The very boughs his steps displace, 
Rustled against the ruffian's face, 
Who, desperate, twice prepared to start, 
And plunge his dagger in his heart ! 
But Redmond turn'd a different way, 
And the bent boughs resumed their sway, 
And Bertram held it wise, unseen, 
Deeper to plunge in coppice green. 
Thus, circled in his coil, the snake, 
When roving hunters beat the brake, 
Watches with red and glistening eye, 
Prepared, if heedless step draw nigh, 
With forked tongue and venom 'd fang 
Instant to dart the deadly pang ; 
But if the intruders turn aside, 
Away his coils unfolded glide, 
And through the deep savannah wind, 
Some undisturb'd retreat to find. 

VII. 

But Bertram, as he backward drew, 
And heard the loud pursuit renew, 
And Redmond's hollo on the wind, 
Oft mutter'd in his savage mind — 
" Redmond O'Neale! were thou and I 
Alone this day's event to try, 
With not a second here to see, 
But the gray cliff and oaken tree, — 
That voice of thine, that shouts so loud, 
Should ne'er repeat its summons proud ! 
No ! nor e'er try its melting power 
Again in maiden's summer bower." 
Eluded, now behind him die, 
Faint and more faint, each hostile cry ; 
He stands in Scargill wood alone, 
Nor hears he now a harsher tone 
Than the hoarse cushat's plaintive cry, . 
Or Greta's sound that murmurs by ; 
And on the dale, so lone and wild, 
The summer sun in quiet smiled. 

VIII. 

He listen'd long with anxious heart, 
Ear bent to hear, and foot to start, 
And, while his stretch' d attention glows, 
Refused his weary frame repose. 
'Twas silence all — he laid him down, 
Where purple heath profusely strown, 
And throatwort, with its azure bell, 
And moss and thyme his cushion swell. 



ROKEBY. 



197 



There, spent with toil, he listless eyed 
The course of Greta's playful tide ; 
Beneath, her banks now eddying dun, 
Now brightly gleaming to the sun, 
As, dancing over rock and stone, 
In yellow light her currents shone, 
Matching in hue the favourite gem 
Of Albin's mountain-diadem. 
Then, tired to watch the current's play, 
He turn'd his weary eyes away, 
To where the bank opposing show'd 
Its huge, square cliffs through shaggy wood. 
One, prominent above the rest, 
Rear'd to the sun its pale gray breast ; 
Around its broken summit grew 
The hazel rude, and sable yew ; 
A thousand varied lichens dyed 
Its waste and weather-beaten side, 
And round its rugged basis lay, 
By time or thunder rent away, 
Fragments, that, from its frontlet torn, 
Were mantled now by verdant thorn. 
Such was the scene's wild majesty, 
That fill'd stern Bertram's gazing eye. 

IX. 

In sullen mood he lay reclined, 
Revolving, in his stormy mind, 
The felon deed, the fruitless guilt, 
His patron's blood by treason spilt ; 
A crime, it seem'd, so dire and dread, 
That it had power to wake the dead. 
Then, pondering on his life betray'd 
By Oswald's art to Redmond's blade, 
In treacherous purpose to withhold, 
So seem'd it, Mortham's promised gold, 
A deep and full revenge he vow'd 
On Redmond, forward, fierce, and proud; 
Revenge on Wilfrid — on his sire 
Redoubled vengeance, swift and dire ! — 
If, in such mood, (as legends say, 
And well believed that simple day,) 
The Enemy of man has power 
To profit by the evil hour, 
Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
His soul's redemption for revenge! 28 
But though his vows, with such a fire 
Of earnest and intense desire 
For vengeance dark and fell, were made, 
As well might reach hell's lowest shade, 
No deeper clouds the grove embrown'd, 
No nether thunders shook the ground ;— 
The demon knew his vassal's heart, 
And spared temptation's needless art. 

x. 

Oft, mingled with the direful theme, 
Came Mortham's form— Was it a dream ? 



t- 



Or had he seen, in vision true, 

That very Mortham whom he slew? 

Or had in living flesh appcar'd 

The only man on earth he fear'd? — 

To try the mystic cause intent, 

His eyes, that on the cliff were bent, 

'Counter'd at once a dazzling glance, 

Like sunbeam flash'd from sword or lance. 

At once he started as for fight, 

But not a foeman was in sight ; 

He heard the cushat's murmur hoarse, 

He heard the river's sounding course ; 

The solitary woodlands lay, 

As slumbering in the summer ray. 

He gazed, like lion roused, around, 

Then sunk again upon the ground. 

'Twas but, he thought, some fitful beam, 

Glanced sudden from the sparkling 

stream ; 
Then plunged him from his gloomy train 
Of ill-connected thoughts again, 
Until a voice behind him cried, 
" Bertram! well met on Greta side." 



Instant his sword was in his hand, 
As instant sunk the ready brand ; 
Yet, dubious still, opposed he stood 
To him that issued from the wood : 
"Guy Denzil !— is it thou?" he said ; 
" Do we two meet in Scargill shade? — 
Stand back a space ! — thy purpose show, 
Whether thou com'st as friend or foe. 
Report hath said, that Denzil's name 
From Rokeby's band was razed with 

- shame." — 
" A shame I owe that hot O'Neale, 
Who told his knight, in peevish zeal, 
Of my marauding on the clowns 
Of Calverley and Bradford downs. 3 ? 
I reck not. In a war to strive, 
Where, save the leaders, none can thrive, 
Suits ill my mood ; and better game 
Awaits us both, if thou'rt the same 
Unscrupulous, bold Risingham, 
Who watch'd with me in midnight dark, 
To snatch a deer from Rokeby-park. 
How think'st thou?" — "Speak thy pur- 
pose out ; 
I love not mystery or doubt." — 

XII. 

"Then, list. — Not far there lurk a crew 
Of trusty comrades, stanch and true, 
Glean'd from both factions — Roundheads, 

freed 
From cant of sermon and of creed ; 






198 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And Cavaliers, whose souls, like mine, 
Spurn at the bonds of discipline. 
Wiser, we judge, by dale and wold, 
A warfare of our own to hold, 
Than breathe our last on battle-down, 
For cloak or surplice, mace or crown. 
Our schemes are laid, our purpose set, 
A chief and leader lack we yet. — 
Thou art a wanderer, it is said ; 
For Mortham's death, thy steps way-laid, 
Thy head at price — so say our spies, 
Who range the valley in disguise. 
Join then with us : — though wild debate 
And wrangling rend our infant state, 
Each to an equal loth to bow, 
Will yield to chief renown'd as thou." — 

XIII. 

"Even now," thought Bertram, passion- 

stirr'd, 
" I call'd on hell, and hell has heard ! 
What lack I, vengeance to command, 
But of stanch comrades such a band? 
This Denzil, vow'd to every evil, 
Might read a lesson to the devil. 
Well, be it so ! each knave and fool 
Shall serve as my revenge's tool." — 
Aloud, ' ' I take thy proffer, Guy, 
But tell me where thy comrades lie?" 
" Not far from hence," Guy Denzil said ; 
" Descend, and cross the river's bed, 
Where rises yonder cliff so gray." 
"Do thou," said Bertram, ''lead the way." 
Then mutter'd, " It is best make sure ; 
Guy Denzil's faith was never pure." 
He follow'd down the steep descent, 
Then through the Greta's streams they 

went ; 
And, when they reach'd the farther shore, 
They stood the lonely cliff before. 

XIV. 

With wonder Bertram heard within 
The flinty rock a murmur'd din ; 
But when Guy pull'd the wilding spray, 
And brambles, from its base away, 
He saw, appearing to the air, 
A little entrance, low and square, 
Like opening cell of hermit lone, 
Dark, winding through the living stone. 
Here enter'd Denzil, Bertram here ; 
And loud and louder on their ear, 
As from the bowels of the earth, 
Resounded shouts of boisterous mirth. 
Of old, the cavern strait and rude, 
In slaty rock the peasant hew'd ; 



And Brignall's woods, and Scargill's, 

wave, 
E'en now, o'er many a sister cave, 3° 
Where, far within the darksome rift, 
The wedge and lever ply their thrift. 
But war had silenced rural trade, 
And the deserted mine was made 
The banquet-hall and fortress too, 
Of Denzil and his desperate crew. — 
There Guilt his anxious revel kept ; 
There, on his sordid pallet, slept 
Guilt-born Excess, the goblet drain'd 
Still in his slumbering grasp retain'd ; 
Regret was there, his eye still cast 
With vain repining on the past ; 
Among the feasters waited near 
Sorrow, and unrepentant Fear,' 
And Blasphemy, to frenzy driven, 
With his own crimes reproaching heaven ; 
While Bertram show'd, amid the crew, 
The Master-Fiend that Milton drew. 

XV. 
Hark ! the loud revel wakes again, 
To greet the leader of the train. 
Behold the group by the pale lamp, 
That struggles with the earthy damp. 
By what strange features Vice hath known, 
To single out and mark her own ! 
Yet some there are, whose brows retain 
Less deeply stamp'd her brand and stain. 
See yon pale stripling ! when a boy, 
A mother's pride, a father's joy ! 
Now, 'gainst the vault's rude walls reclined, 
An early image fills his mind : 
The cottage, once his sire's, he sees, 
Embower'd upon the banks of Tees ; 
He views sweet Winston's woodland 

scene, 
And shares "the dance on Gainford-green. 
A tear is springing — but the zest 
Of some wild tale, or brutal jest, 
Hath to loud laughter stirr'd the rest. 
On him they call, the aptest mate 
For jovial song and merry feat : 
Fast flies his dream — with dauntless air, 
As one victorious o'er Despair, 
He bids the ruddy cup go round, 
Till sense and sorrow both are drown'd : 
And soon, in merry wassail, he, 
The life of all their revelry, 
Peals his loud song ! — The muse has found 
Her blossoms on the wildest ground, 
'Mid noxious weeds at random strew'd, 
Themselves all profitless and rude. — 
With desperate merriment he sung, 
The cavern to the chorus rung ; 



ROKEBY. 



igg 



Yet mingled with his reckless glee 
Remorse's bitter agony. 



SONG. 

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, 

And" Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there, 

Would grace a summer queen. 
And as I rode by Dal ton-hall, 

Beneath the turrets high, 
A Maiden on the castle wall 

Was singing merrily, — 

CHORUS. 

" O, Brignall banks are fresh and'fair 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen." — 

" If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, 

To leave both tower and town, 
Thou first must guess what life lead we, 

That dwell by dale and down ? 
And if thou canst that riddle read, 

As read full well you may, 
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, 

As blithe as Queen of May." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, " Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are green ; 
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, 

Than reign our English queen. 

xvi r. 
" I read you, by your bugle-horn, 

And by your palfrey good, 
I read you for a ranger sworn, 

To keep the king's greenwood." — 
" A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, 

And 'tis at peep of light ; 
His blast is heard at merry morn, 

And mine at dead of night." — 

CHORUS. 

Yet sung she, ' ' Brignall banks are fair, 

And Greta woods are gay ; 
I would I were with Edmund there, 

To reign his Queen of May! 

" With burnish'd brand and musketoon, 

So gallantly you come, 
I read you for a bold Dragoon, 

That lists the tuck of drum." — 
" I list no more the tuck of drum, 

No more the trumpet hear ; 
But when the beetle sounds his hum, 

My comrades take the spear. 



CHORUS. 

"And, O ! though Brignall banks be fair, 

And Greta woods be gay, 
Yet mickle must the maiden dare, 

Would reign my Queen of May ! 

XVIII. 

" Maiden ! a nameless life I lead, 

A nameless death I'll die! 
The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, 

Were better mate than I ! 
And when I'm with my comrades met, 

Beneath the greenwood bough, 
What once we were we all forget, 

Nor think what we are now. 

CHORUS. 
"Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, 

And Greta woods are green, 
And you may gather garlands there 

Would grace a summer queen." 

When Edmund ceased his simple song, 
Was silence on the sullen throng, 
Till waked some ruder mate their glee 
With note of coarser minstrelsy. 
But, far apart, in dark divan, 
Denzil and Bertram many a plan, 
Of import foul and fierce, design'd, 
While still on Bertram's grasping mind 
The wealth of murder'd Mortham hung ; 
Though half he fear'd his daring tongue, 
When it should give his wishes birth, 
Might raise a spectre from the earth ! 

XIX. 

At length his wondrous tale he told : 
When, scornful, smiled his comrade bold ; 
For, train'd in license of a court, 
Religion's self was Denzil's sport; 
Then judge in what contempt he held 
The visionary tales of eld ! 
His awe for Bertram scarce repress'd 
The unbeliever's sneering jest. 
' ' 'Twere hard, " he said, ' ' for sage or seer, 
To spell the subject of your fear ; 
Nor do I boast the art renown'd, 
Vision and omen to expound. 
Yet, faith, if I must needs afford 
To spectre watching treasured hoard, 
As bandog keeps his master's roof, 
Bidding the plunderer stand aloof, 
This doubt remains — thy goblin gaunt 
Hath chosen ill his ghostly haunt ; 
For why his guard on Mortham hold, 
When Rokeby castle hath the gold 
Thy patron won on Indian soil, 
By stealth, by piracy, and spoil?" 



SoO 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



At tins he paused — for angry shame 
Lower'd on the brow of Risingham. 
He blush'd to think, that he should seem 
Assertor of an airy dream, 
And gave his wrath another theme. 
" Denzil," he says, " though lowly laid, 
Wrong not the memory of the dead ; 
For, while he lived, at Mortham's look 
Thy very soul, Guy Denzil, shook ! 
And when he tax'd thy breach of word 
To yon fair Rose of Allenford, 
I saw thee crouch like chasten'd hound, 
Whose back the huntsman's lash hath 

found. 
Nor dare to call his foreign wealth 
The spoil of piracy or stealth ; 
He won it bravely with his brand, 
When Spain waged warfare with our land. 3 1 
Mark, too — I brook no idle jeer, 
Nor couple Bertram's name with fear ; 
Mine is but half the demon's lot, 
For I believe, but tremble not. — 
Enough of this.— Say, why this hoard 
Thou deem'st at Rokeby castle stored ; 
Or think'st that Mortham would bestow 
His treasure with his faction's foe?" 

XXI. 

Soon quench'd. was Denzil's ill-timed 

mirth ; 
Rather he would have seen the earth 
Give to ten thousand spectres birth, , 
Than venture to awake to flame 
The deadly wrath of Risingham. 
Submiss he answefd, — ' ' Mortham's mind, 
Thou know' st, to joy was ill inclined. 
In youth, 'tis said, a gallant free, 
A lusty reveller was he ; 
But since return'd from over sea, 
A sullen and a silent mood 
Hath numb'd the current of his blood. 
Hence he refused each kindly call 
To Rokeby's hospitable hall, 
And our stout knight, at dawn of mora 
Who loved to hear the bugle horn, 
Nor less, when eve his oaks embrown'd, 
To see the ruddy cup go round, 
Took umbrage that a friend so near 
Refused to share his chase and cheer ; 
Thus did the kindred barons jar, 
Ere they divided in the war. 
Yet, trust me, friend, Matilda fair 
Of Mortham's wealth is destined heir." — 

XXII. 

" Destined to her ! to yon slight maid ! 
The prize my life had wellhigh paid, 



When 'gainst Laroche, by Cayo's wave, 
I fought, my patron's wealth to save ! — 
Denzil, I knew him long, yet ne'er 
Knew him that joyous cavalier, 
Whom youthful friends and early fame 
Call'd soul of gallantry and game. 
A moody man, he sought our crew, 
Desperate and dark, whom no one knew ; 
And rose, as men with us must rise, 
By scorning life and all its ties. 
On each adventure rash he roved, 
As danger for itself he loved ; 
On his sad brow nor mirth nor wine 
Could e'er one wrinkled knot untwine ; 
111 was the omen if he smiled, 
For 'twas in peril stern and wild ; 
But when he laugh' d, each luckless mate 
Might hold our fortune desperate. 
Foremost he fought in every broil, 
Then scornful turn'd him from the spoil ; 
Nay, often strove to bar the way 
Between his comrades and their prey; 
Preaching, even then, to such as we, 
Hot with our dear-bought victory, 
Of mercy and humanity. 

XXIII. 

i " I loved him well — His fearless part, 

i His gallant leading, won my heart. 

| And after each victorious fight, 
'Twas I that wrangled for his right, 
Redeem'd his portion of the prey 

| That greedier mates had torn away : 
In field and storm thrice saved his life, 
And once amid our comrades' strife. — 3* 
Yes, I have loved thee ! Well hath proved 
My toil, my danger, how I loved ! 
Yet will I mourn no more thy fate, 
Ingrate in life, in death ingrate. 
Rise if thou canst !" he look'd around, 
And sternly stamp'd upon the ground — , 
" Rise, with thy bearing proud and high, 
Even as this morn it met mine eye, 
And give me, if thou darest, the lie 1" 
He paused — then, calm and passion-freed, 
Bade Denzil with his tale proceed. 

XXIV. 

" Bertram, to thee I need not tell, 
What thou hast cause to wot so well, 
How Superstition's nets were twined 
Around the Lord of Mortham's mind ! 
But since he drove thee from his tower, 
A maid he found in Greta's bower, 
Whose speech, like David's harp, had 

sway, 
To charm his evil fiend away. 



ROKEBY. 



201 



I know not if her features moved 
Remembrance of the wife he loved ; 
But he would gaze upon her eye, ' 
Till his mood soften'd to a sigh. 
He, whom no living mortal sought 
To question of his secret thought, 
Now every thought and care confess'd 
To his fair niece's faithful breast ; 
Nor was there aught of rich and rare, 
In earth, in ocean, or in air, 
But it must deck Matilda's hair. 
Her love still bound him unto life ; 
But then awoke the civil strife, 
And menials bore, by his commands, 
Three coffers, with their iron bands, 
From Mortham's vault, at midnight deep, 
To her lone bower in Rokeby-Keep, 
Ponderous with gold and plate of pride, 
His gift, if he in battle died." — 

XXV. 

"Then Denzil, as I guess, lays train, 
These iron-banded chests to gain ; 
Else, wherefore should he hover here, 
Where many a peril waits him near, 
For all his feats of war and peace, 
For plunder'd boors, and harts of greese? 
Since through the hamlets as he fared, 
What hearth has Guy's maraudingspared, 
Or where the chase that hath not rung 
With Denzil'sbow, at midnight strung?" — 
" I hold my wont — my rangers go, 
Even now to track a milk-white doe. 
By Rokeby-hall she takes her lair, 
In Greta wood she harbours fair, 
And when my huntsman marks her way, 
What think'st thou, Bertram, of the prey? 
Were Rokeby's daughter in our power, 
We rate her ransom at her dower." 

XXVI. 

"'Tis well! — there's vengeance in the 

thought, 
Matilda is by Wilfrid sought ; 
And hot-brain'd Redmond, too, 'tis said, 
Pays lover's homage to the maid. 
Bertram she scorn'd — If met by chance, 
She turn'd from me her shuddering glance, 
Like a nice dame, that will not brook 
On what she hates and loathes to look ; 
She told to Mortham she could ne'er 
Behold me without secret fear, 
Foreboding evil ; — She may rue 
To find her prophecy fall true ! — 
The war has weeded Rokeby's train, 
Few followers in his halls remain : 



If thy scheme miss, then, brief and bold, 
We are enow to storm the hold ; 
Bear off the plunder, and the dame, 
And leave the castle all in flame." — 



" Still art thou Valour's venturous son ! 

Yet ponder first the risk to run : 

The menials of the castle, true, 

And stubborn to their charge, though few ; 

The wall to scale — the moat to cross — 

The wicket-grate — the inner fosse." — 

— " Fool ! if we blench for toys like these, 

On what fair guerdon can we seize? 

Our hardiest venture, to explore 

Some wretched peasant's fenceless door, 

And the best prize we bear away, 

The earnings of his sordid day." — 

" A while thy hasty taunt forbear : 

In sight of road more sure and fair, 

Thou wouldst not choose, in blindfold 

wrath, 
Or wantonness, a desperate path ? 
List, then ;— for vantage or assault, 
From gilded vane to dungeon-vault, 
Each pass of Roke by-house I know : 
There is one postern, dark and low, 
That issues at a secret spot, 
By most neglected or forgot. 
Now, could a spial of our train 
On fair pretext admittance gain. 
That sally-port might be unbarr'd : 
Then, vain were battlement and ward ! " — 

XXVIII. 

"Now speak'st thou well: — to me the 

same, 
If force or art shall urge the game ; 
Indifferent, if like fox I wind, 
Or spring like tiger on the hind. — 
But, hark! our merry men so gay 
Troll forth another roundelay." — 

SONG. 

" A weary lot is thine, fair maid, 

A weary lot is thine ! 
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, 

And press the rue for wine ! 
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 

A feather of the blue, 
A doublet of the Lincoln green, — 

No more of me you knew, 

My love ! 
No more of me you knew. 

" This morn is merry June, I trow, 
The rose is budding fain ; 



202 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



But she shall bloom in winter snow, 

we two meet again." 
1I<^ tum'd his charger as he spake, 

Upon the river shore, 
lie gave his bridle-reins a shake, 
Said, " Adieu for evermore, 

My love ! 
And adieu for evermore."— 33 

XXIX. 

1 ' What youth is this, your band among, 
The best for minstrelsy and song? 
In his wild notes seem aptly met 
A strain of pleasure and regret." — 
" Edmund of Winston is his name ; 
The hamlet sounded with the fame 
Of early hopes his childhood gave, — 
Now center'd all in Brignall cave! 
I watch him well — his wayward course 
Shows oft a tincture of remorse. 
Some early love-shaft grazed his heart, 
And oft the scar will ache and smart. 
Yet is he useful ;— of the rest, 
By fits, the darling and the jest, 
His harp, his story, and his lay, 
Oft aid the idle hours away. 
When unemploy'd, each fiery mate 
Is ripe for mutinous debate. 
He tuned his strings e'en now — again 
He wakes them, with a blither strain." 
xxx. 

SONG. 
Allen-a-Dale . 
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, 
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, 
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the win- 
ning. 
Come, read me my riddle ! come, hearken 

my tale ! 
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale. 

The Baron of Ravensworth * prances in 

pride, 
And he views his domains upon Arkindale 

side, 
The mere for his net, and the land for his 

game, 
The chase for the wild, and the park for 

the tame, 



* The ruins of Ravensworth Castle stand 
in the North Riding of Yorkshire, about three 
miles from the town of Richmond, and ad- 
joining to the waste called the Forest of 
Arkingarth. It belonged originally to the 
powerful family of Fitz-Hugh, from whom it 
passed to the Lords Dacre of the South. 



Yet the fish of the kke, and the deer of 
the vale, 

Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a- 
Dale ! 

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, 
Though his spur be as sharp, and his 

blade be as bright ; 
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, 
Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his 

word ; 
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will 

vail, 
Who at Rere-cross34 on Stanmore meets 

Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come ; 
The mother, she ask'd of his household 

and home : 
" Though the castle of Richmond stand 

fair on the hill, 
My hall," quoth bold Allen, " shows gal- 

lanter still ; 
'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its 

crescent so pale, 
And with all its bright spangles ! " said 

Allen-a-Dale. 

The father was steel, and the mother was 
stone ; 

They lifted the latch, and they bade him 
be gone ; 

But loud, on the morrow, their wail and 
their cry : 

He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny 
black eye, 

And she fled to the forest to hear a love- 
tale, 

And the youth it was told by was Allen- 
a-Dale ! 

XXXI. 

' ' Thou see'st that, whether sad or gay, 
Love mingles ever in his lay. 
But when his boyish wayward fit 
Is o'er, he hath address and wit ; 

! 'tis a brain of fire, can ape 
Each dialect, each various shape." 
" Nay, then, to aid thy project, Guy — 
Soft ! who comes here?" — "My trusty spy, 
Speak, Hamlin ! hast thou lodged our 

deer?"— 35 
" I have — but two fair stags are near. 

1 watch'd her, as she slowly stray'd 
From Egliston up Thorsgill glade ; 
But Wilfrid Wycliffe sought her side, 
And then young Redmond, in his pride, 
Shot down to meet them on their way : 
Much, as it seem'd, was theirs to say : 



ROKEBY. 



203 



There's time to pitch both toil and net, 
Before their path be homeward set." 
A hurried and a whisper'd speech 
Did Bertram's will to Denzil teach ; 
Who, turning to the robber band, 
Bade four, the bravest, take the brand. 



CANTO FOURTH. 
1. 

When Denmark's raven soar'd on high, 
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky, 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Reged's Britons dread the yoke.3 6 
And the broad shadow of her wing 
Blacken'd each cataract and spring, 
Where Tees in tumult leaves his source, 
Thundering o'er Caldron and High-Force: 
Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fix'd on each vale a Runic name, 37 
Rear'd high their altar's rugged stone, 
And gave their Gods the land they won. 
Then, Balder, one bleak garth was thine, 
And one sweet brooklet's silver line, 
And Woden's Croft did title gain 
From the stern Father of the Slain ; 
But to the Monarch of the Mace, 
That held in fight the foremost place, 
To Odin's son, and Sifia's spouse, 
Near Stratforth high they paid their vows, 
Remember'd Thor's victorious fame, 
And gave the dell the Thunderer's name. 

II. 

Yet Scald or Kemper err'd, I ween, 
Who gave that soft and quiet scene, 
With all its varied light and shade, 
And every little sunny glade, 
And the blithe brook that strolls along 
Its pebbled bed with summer song, 
To the grim God of blood and scar, 
The grisly King of Northern War. 
O, better were its banks assign'd 
To spirits of a gentler kind ! 
For where the thicket groups recede, 
And the rath primrose decks the mead, 
The velvet grass seems carpet meet 
For the light fairies' lively feet. 
Yon tufted knoll, with daisies strovvn, 
Might make proud Oberon a throne, 
While, hidden in the thicket nigh, 
Puck should brood o'er his frolic sly ; 
And where profuse the wood-vetch clings 
Round ash and elm, in verdant rings, 
Its pale and azure-pencill'd flower 
Should canopy Titania's bower. 



Here rise no cliffs the vale to shade ; 
But, skirting every sunny glade, 
In fair variety of green 
The woodland lends its sylvan screen. 
Hoary, yet haughty, frowns the oak, 
Its boughs by weight of ages broke ; 
And towers erect, in sable spire, 
The pine-tree scathed by lightning fire ; 
The drooping ash and birch, between, 
Hang their fair tresses o'er the green, 
And all beneath, at random grow 
Each coppice dwarf of varied show, 
Or, round the stems profusely twined, 
Fling summer odours on the wind. 
Such varied group Urbino's hand 
Round Him of Tarsus nobly plann'd, 
What time he bade proud Athens own 
On Mars's Mount the God unknown ! 
Then gray Philosophy stood nigh, 
Though bent by age, in spirit high : 
Then rose the scar-seam'd veteran's spear 
There Grecian Beauty bent to hear, 
While Childhood at her foot was placed, 
Or clung delighted to her waist. 

IV. 

"And rest we here," Matilda said, 
And sat her in the varying shade. 
" Chance-met, we well may steal an hour, 
To friendship due, from fortune's power. 
Thou, Wilfrid, ever kind, must lend 
Thy counsel to thy sister-friend ; 
And, Redmond, thou, at my behest, 
No farther urge thy desperate 'quest. 
For to my care a charge is left, 
Dangerous to one of aid bereft ; 
Wellnigh an orphan, and alone, 
Captive her sire, her house o'erthrown." 
Wilfrid, with wonted kindness graced, 
Beside her on the turf she placed ; 
Then paused, with downcast look and eye, 
Nor bade young Redmond seat him nigh. 
Her conscious diffidence he saw, 
Drew backward, as in modest awe, 
And sat a little space removed, 
Unmark'd to gaze on her he loved. 

v. 
Wreathed in its dark-brown rings, her hair 
Half hid Matilda's forehead fair, 
Half hid and half reveal'd to view 
Her full dark eye of hazel hue. 
The rose, with faint and feeble streak, 
So slightly tinged the maiden's cheek, 
That you had said her hue was pale ; 
But if she faced the summer gale, 



204 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Or spoke, or sung, or quicker moved, 
Or heard the praise of those she loved, 
Or when of interest wis express'd 
Aught that waked feeling in her breast, 
The mantling blood in ready play 
Rivall'd the blush of rising day. 
There was a soft and pensive grace, 
A east of thought upon her face, 
That suited well the forehead high, 
The eyelash dark, and downcast eye ; 
The mild expression spoke a mind 
In duty firm, composed, resign' d ; 
'Tis that which Roman art has given, 
To mark their maiden Queen of Heaven. 
In hours of sport, that mood gave way 
To fancy's light and frolic play ; 
And when the dance, or tale, or song, 
In harmless mirth sped time along, 
Full oft her doating sire would call 
His Maud the merriest of them all. 
But days of war and civil crime, 
Allow' d but ill such festal time, 
And her soft pensiveness of brow 
Had deepen'd into sadness now. 
In Marston field her father ta'en, 
Her friends dispersed, brave Mortham 

slain, 
While every ill her soul foretold, 
From Oswald's thirst of power and gold, 
And boding thoughts that she must 

part 
With a soft vision of her heart, — 
All lower' d around the lovely maid, 
To darken her dejection's shade. 

VI. 

Who has not heard — while Erin yet 

Strove 'gainst the Saxon's iron bit — 

Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 

In English blood imbrued his steel.3 8 

Against St. George's cross blazed high 

The banners of his Tanistry, 

To fiery Essex gave the foil, 

And reign'd a prince on Ulster's soil? 

But chief arose his victor pride, 

When that brave Marshal fought and 

died,39 
And Avon-Duff to ocean bore 
His billows red with Saxon gore. 
'Twas first in that disastrous fight, 
Rokeby and Mortham proved their might. 
There had they fallen 'mongst the rest, 
But pity touch'd a chieftain's breast ; 
The Tanist he to great O'Neale ; 4° 
He check' d his followers' bloody zeal, 
To quarter took the kinsmen bold, 
And bore them to his mountain-hold, 



Gave them eacli sylvan joy to know, 
Slieve-Donard's cliffs and woods could 

show, 
Shared with them Erin's festal cheer, 
Show'd them the chase of wolf and deer, 
And, when a fitting time was come, 
Safe and unransom'd sent them home, 
Loaded with many a gift, to prove 
A generous foe's respect and love. 

VII. 

Years speed away. On Rokeby's head 
Some touch of -early snow was shed ; 
Calm he enjoy'd, by Greta's wave, 
The peace which James the Peaceful gave, 
While Mortham, far beyond the main, 
Waged his fierce wars on Indian Spain. — 
It chanced upon a wintry night, 
That whiten'd Stanmore's stormy height, 
The chase was o'er, the stag was kill'd, 
In Rokeby hall the cups were fill'd, 
And by the huge stone chimney sate 
The Knight in hospitable state. 
Moonless the sky, the hour was late, 
When a loud summons shook the gate. 
And sore for entrance and for aid 
A voice of foreign accent pray'd. 
The porter answer'd to the call, 
And instant rush'd into the hall 
A Man, whose aspect and attire 
Startled the circle by the fire. 

VIII. 

His plaited hair in elf-locks spread 
Around his bare and matted head ; 
On leg and thigh, close stretch'd and trim, 
His vesture show'd the sinewy limb ; 
In saffron dyed, a linen vest 
Was frequent folded round his breast ; 
A mantle long and loose he wore, 
Shaggy with ice, and stain'd with gore. 
He clasp'd a burden to his heart, 
And, resting on a knotted dart, 
The snow from hair and beard he shook, 
And round him gazed with wilder'd look. 
Then up the hall with staggering pace, 
He hasten'd by the blaze to place, 
Half lifeless from the bitter air, 
His load, a Boy of beauty rare. 
To Rokeby, next, he louted low", 
Then stood erect his tale to show, 
With wild majestic port and tone, 
Like envoy of some barbarous throne. * l 
' ' Sir Richard, Lord of Rokeby, hear ! 
Turlough O'Neale salutes thee dear; 
He graces thee, and to thy care 
Young Redmond gives, his grandson fair. 



ROKEBY. 



205 



He bids thee breed him as thy son, 
For Turlough's days of joy are done ; 
And other lords have seized his land, 
And faint and feeble is his hand ; 
And all the glory of Tyrone 
Is like a morning vapour flown. 
To bind the duty on thy soul, 
He bids thee think on Erin's bowl ! 
If any wrong the young O'Neale, 
He bids thee think of Erin's steel. 
To Mortham first this charge was due, 
But, in his absence, honours you. — 
Now is my master's message by, 
And Ferraught will contented die. 

IX. 

His look grew fix'd, his cheek grew 

pale, 
He sunk when he had told his tale ; 
For, hid beneath his mantle wide, 
A mortal wound was in his side. 
Vain was all aid — in terror wild, 
And sorrow, scream'd the orphan Child. 
Poor Ferraught raised his wistful eyes, 
And faintly strove to soothe his cries ; 
All reckless of his dying pain, 
He blest and blest him o'er again ! 
And kiss'd the little hands outspread, 
And kiss'd and cross'd the infant head, 
And, in his native tongue and phrase, 
Pray'd to each Saint to watch his days ; 
Then all his strength together drew, 
The charge to Rokeby to renew. 
When half was falter'd from his breast, 
And half by dying signs express'd, 
"Bless the O'Neale ! " he faintly said„ 
And thus the faithful spirit fled. 



'Twas long ere soothing might prevail 
Upon the Child to end the tale ; 
And then he said, that from his home 
His grandsire had been forced to roam, 
Which had not been if Redmond's hand 
Had but had strength to draw the brand, 
The brand of Lenaugh More the Red, 
That hung beside the gray wolf's head. — 
'Twas from his broken phrase descried, 
His foster-father was his guide, ^ 
Who, in his charge, from Ulster bore 
Letters and gifts a goodly store : 
But ruffians met them in the wood, 
Ferraught in battle boldly stood, 
Till wounded and o'erpower'd at length, 
And stripp'd of all, his failing strength 

iust bore him here — and then the child 
tenew'd again his moaning wild. 



The tear down childhood's cheek that 

flows, 
Is like the dewdrop on the rose ; 
When next the summer breeze comes by, 
And waves the bush, the flower is dry. 
Won by their care, the orphan Child 
Soon on his new protector smiled, 
With dimpled cheek and eye so fair, 
Through his thick curls of flaxen hair, 
But blithest laugh'd that cheek and eye, 
When Rokeby's little maid was nigh ; 
'Twas his, with elder brother's pride, 
Matilda's tottering steps to guide; 
His native lays in Irish tongue, 
To soothe her infant ear he sung, 
And primrose twined with daisy fair, 
To form a chaplet for her hair. 
By lawn, by grove, by brooklet's strand, 
The children still were hand in hand, 
And good Sir Richard smiling eyed 
The early knot so kindly tied. 

xir. 
But summer months bring wilding shoot 
From bud to bloom, from bloom to 

fruit ; 
And years draw on our human span, 
From child to boy, from boy to man ; 
And soon in Rokeby's woods is seen 
A gallant boy in hunter's green. 
He loves to wake die felon boar, 
In his dark haunt on Greta's shore, 
And loves, against the deer so dun, 
To draw the shaft, or lift the gun, 
Yet more he loves, in autumn prime, 
The hazel's spreading boughs to climb, 
And down its cluster'd stores to hail, 
Where young Matilda holds her veil. 
And she, whose veil receives the shower, 
Is alter'd too, and knows her power ; 
Assume?, a monitress's pride, 
Her Redmond's dangerous sports to chide ; 
Yet listens still to hear him tell 
How the grim wild-boar fought and fell, 
How at his fall the bugle rung, 
Till rock and greenwood answer flung ; 
Then blesses her, that man can find 
A pastime of such savage kind! 

XIII. 

But Redmond knew to weave his tale 
So well with praise of wood and dale, 
And knew so well each point to trace, 
Gives living interest to the chase, 
And knew so well o'er all to throw 
His spirit's wild romantic glow, 



206 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



That, while she blamed, and while she 

fear'd, 
She loved each venturous tale she heard. 
Oft, too, when drifted snow and rain 
To bower and hall their steps restrain, 
Together they explored the page 
Of glowing bard or gifted sage : 
Oft, placed the evening fire beside, 
The minstrel art alternate tried, 
While gladsome harp and lively lay 
Bade winter-night flit fast away : 
Thus, from their childhood, blending still 
Their sport, their study, and their skill, 
An union of the soul they prove, 
But must not think that it was love. 
But though they dared not, envious Fame 

j Soon dared to give that union name ; 

I And when so often, side by side, 
From year to year the pair she eyed, 
She sometimes blamed the good old 

Knight, 
As dull of ear and dim of sight, 
Sometimes his purpose would declare, 
That young O'Neale should wed his heir. 

XIV.. 

The suit of Wilfrid rent disguise 
And bandage from the lovers' eyes ; 
'Twas plain that Oswald, for his son, 
Had Rokeby's favour wellnigh won. 
Now must they meet with change of 

cheer, • 

With mutual looks of shame and fear ; 
Now must Matilda stray apart, 
To school her disobedient heart : 
And Redmond now alone must rue 
The love he never can subdue. 
But factions rose, and Rokeby sware 
No rebel's son should wed his heir ; 
And Redmond, nurtured while a child 
In many a bard's traditions wild, 
Now sought the lonely wood or stream, 
To cherish there a happier dream, 
Of maiden won by sword or lance, 
As in the regions of romance ; 
And count the heroes of his line, 
Great Nial of the Pledges Nine,43 
Shane-Dymas44 wild, and Geraldine,43 
And Connan-more, who vow'd his race 
For ever to the fight and chase, 
And cursed him, of his lineage born, 
Should sheathe the sword ' to reap the 

corn, 
Or leave the mountain and the wold, 
To shroud himself in castled hold. 
From such examples hope he drew, 
And brighten' d as the trumpet blew. 



XV. 
If brides were won by heart and blade, 
Redmond had both his cause to aid, 
And all beside of nurture rare 
That might beseem a baron's heir. 
Turlough O'Neale, in Erin's strife, 
On Rokeby's Lord bestow'd his life, 
And well did Rokeby's generous Knight • 
Young Redmond for the deed requite. 
Nor was his liberal care and cost 
Upon the gallant stripling lost ; 
Seek the North-Riding broad and wide, 
Like Redmond none could steed bestride ; 
From Tynemouth search to Cumberland, 
Like Redmond none could wield a brand ; 
And then, of humour kind and free, 
And bearing him to each degree 
With frank and fearless courtesy, 
There never youth was form'd to steal 
Upon the heart like brave O'Neale. 

XVI. 

Sir Richard loved him as his son ; 
And when the days of peace were done, 
And to the gales of war he gave 
The banner of his sires to wave, 
Redmond, distinguish' d by his care, 
He chose that honour'd flag to bear, 
And named his page, the next degree, 
In that old time, to chivalry.4 6 
In five pitch'd fields he well maintain'd 
The honour'd place his worth obtain'd, 
And high was Redmond's youthful name 
Blazed in the roll of martial fame. 
Had fortune smiled on Marston fight, 
The eve had seen him dubb'd a knight ; 
Twice, 'mid the battle's doubtful strife, 
Of Rokeby's Lord he saved the life. 
But when he saw him prisoner made, 
He kiss'd and then resign' d his blade, 
And yielded him an easy prey 
To those who led the Knight away ; 
Resolved Matilda's sire should prove 
In prison, as in fight, his love. 

XVII. 

When lovers meet in adverse hour, 
'Tis like a sun-glimpse through a shower, 
A watery ray, an instant seen 
The darkly closing clouds between. 
As Redmond on the turf reclined, 
The past and present fill'd his mind : 
" It was not thus," Affection said, 
" I dream'd of my return, dear maid ! 
Not thus, when from thy trembling hand, 
I took the banner and the brand, 
When round me, as the bugles blew, 
Their blades three hundred warriors drew, 






kOKEBY. 



209 



For all the treasured gold that rests 
In Mortham's iron-banded chests. 
Redmond resumed his seat ; — he said, 
Some roe was rustling in the shade. 
Bertram laugh'd grimly when he saw 
His timorous comrade backward draw ; 
"A trusty mate art thou, to fear 
A single arm, and aid so near ! 
Yet have I seen thee mark a deer. 
Give me thy carabine — I'll show 
An ait that thou wilt gladly know, 
How thou mayst safely quell a foe." 

xxyi. 
On hands and knees fierce Bertram drew 
The spreading birch and hazels through, 
Till he had Redmond full in view ; 
The gun he levell'd — Mark like this 
Was Bertram never known to miss, 
When fair opposed to aim there sate 
An object of his mortal hate. 
That day young Redmond's death had seen, 
But twice Matilda came between 
The carabine and Redmond's breast, 
Just ere the spring his finger press'd. 
A deadly oath the ruffian swore, 
But yet his fell design forbore : 
"It ne'er," he mutter'd, "shall be said, 
That thus I scath'd thee, haughty maid !" 
Then moved to seek more open aim, 
When to his side Guy Denzil came : 
" Bertram, forbear! — we are undone 
For ever, if thou fire the gun. 
By all the fiends, an armed force 
Descends the dell, of foot and horse ! 
We perish if they hear a shot- 
Madman ! we have a safer plot — 
Nay, friend, be ruled, and bear thee back ! 
Behold, down yonder hollow track, 
The warlike leader of the band 
Comes, with his broadsword in his hand.' 
Bertram look'd up ; he saw, he knew 
That Denzil's fears had counsell'd true, 
Then cursed his fortune and withdrew, 
Threaded the woodlands undescried, 
And gained the cave on Greta side. 

XXVII. 

They whom dark Bertram, in his wrath, 
Doom'd to captivity or death, 
Their thoughts to one sad subject lent, 
Saw not nor heard the ambushment. 
Heedless and unconcern'd they sate, 
While on the very verge of fate ; 
Heedless and unconcern'd remain'd, 
When Heaven the murderer's arm re- 
strain'd ; 



Y 



As ships drift darkling down the tide, 

Nor see the shelves o'er which they glide. 

Uninterrupted thus they heard 

What Mortham's closing tale declared. 

He spoke of wealth as of a load, 

By Fortune on a wretch bestow'd, 

In bitter mockery of hate, 

His cureless woes to aggravate ; 

But yet he pray'd Matilda's care 

Might save that treasure for his heir — 

His Edith's son — for still he raved 

As confident his life was saved ; 

In frequent vision, he averr'd, 

He saw his face, his voice he heard ; 

Then argued calm — had murder been, 

The blood, the corpses, had been seen ; 

Some had pretended, too, to mark 

On Windermere a stranger bark, 

Whose crew, with jealous care, yet mild, 

Guarded a female and a child. 

While these faint proofs he told and press'd, 

Hope seem'd to kindle in his .breast ; 

Though inconsistent, vague, and vain, 

It warp'd his judgment, and his brain. 

XXVIII. 

These solemn words his story close : — 
" Heaven witness for me, that I chose 
My part in this sad civil fight, 
Moved by no cause but England's right. 
My country's groans have bid me draw 
My sword for Gospel and for law ; — 
These righted, I fling arms aside, 
And seek my son through Europe wide, 
My wealth, on which a kinsman nigh 
Already casts a grasping eye, 
With thee may unsuspected lie. 
When of my death Matilda hears, 
Let her retain her trust three years ; 
If none, from me, the treasure claim, 
Perish'd is Mortham's race and name. 
Then let it leave her generous hand, 
And flow in bounty o'er the land ; 
Soften the wounded prisoner's lot, 
Rebuild the peasant's ruin'd cot ; 
So spoils, acquired by fight afar, 
Shall mitigate domestic war.' 

XXIX. 

The generous youths, who well had known 
Of Mortham's mind the powerful tone, 
To that high mind, by sorrow swerved, 
Gave sympathy his woes deserved ; 
But Wilfrid chief, who saw reveal'd 
Why Mortham wish'd his -life conceal' d, 
In secret, doubtless, to pursue 
The schemes his wilder'd fancy drew. 
14 



210 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



Thoughtful he heard Matilda tell, 

That she would share her father's cell, 

His partner of captivity, 

Where'er his prison-house should be"; 

Wt grieved to think that Rokcby hall, 

Dismantled, and forsook by all, 

Open to rapine and to stealth, 

Had now no safe-guard for the wealth 

Intrusted by her kinsman kind, 

And for such noble use design'd. 

" Was Barnard Castle then her choice," 

Wilfrid enquired with hasty voice, 

" Since there the victor's laws ordain, 

Her father must a space remain? " 

A flutter'd hope his accents shook, 

A flutter'd joy was in his look. 

Matilda hasten'd to reply, 

For anger flash'd in Redmond's eye ; — 

1 ' Duty," she said, with gentle grace, 

"Kind Wilfrid, has no choice of place ; 

Else had I for my sire assign' d 

Prison less galling to his mind, 

Than that his wild-wood haunts which sees 

And hears the murmurs of the Tees, 

Recalling thus, with every glance, 

What captive's sorrow can enhance ; 

But where those woes are highest, there 

Needs Rokeby most his daughter's care." 

XXX. 

He felt the kindly check she gave, 

And stood abash'd-— then answer'd grave : 

" I sought thy purpose, noble maid, 

Thy doubts to clear, thy schemes to aid. 

I have beneath mine own command, 

So wills my sire, a gallant band, 

And well could send some horseman wight 

To bear the treasure forth by night, 

And so bestow it as you deem 

In these ill days may safest seem." — 

"Thanks, gentle Wilfrid, thanks," she 

said : 
" O, be it not one day delay'd ! 
And, more, thy sister-friend to aid, 
Be thou thyself content to hold, 
In thine own keeping, Mortham's gold, 
Safest with thee." — While thus she spoke, 
Arm'd soldiers on their converse broke, 
The same of whose approach afraid, 
The ruffians left their ambuscade. 
Their chief to Wilfrid bended low, 
Then look'd around as for a foe. 
"What mean'st thou, friend," young 

Wycliffe said, 
"Why thus in arms beset the glade? " — 
4 ' That would I gladly learn from you : 
For up my squadron as I drew, 



To exercise our martial game 
Upon the moor of Barninghame, 
A stranger told you were waylaid, 
Surrounded, and to death betray'd. 
He had a leader's voice, I ween, 
A falcon glance, a warrior's mien. 
He bade me bring you instant aid ; 
I doubted not, and I obey'd." 

XXXI. 

Wilfrid changed colour, and, amazed, 
Turn'd short, and on the speaker gazed; 
While Redmond every thicket round 
Track'd earnest as a questing hound, 
And Denzil's carabine he found ; 
Sure evidence, by which they knew 
The warning was as kind as true. 
Wisest it seem'd, with cautious speed 
To leave the dell. It was agreed, 
That Redmond, with Matilda fair, 
And fitting guard, should home repair ; 
At nightfall Wilfrid should attend, 
With a strong band, his sister-friend, 
To bear with her from Rokeby's bowers 
To Barnard Castle's lofty towers, 
Secret and safe the banded chests, 
In which the wealth of Mortham rests. 
This hasty purpose fix'd, they part, 
Each with a grieved and anxious heart. 



CANTO FIFTH, 
i. 

The sultry summer day is done, 

The western hills have hid the sun, 

But mountain peak and village spire 

Retain reflection of his fire. 

Old Barnard's towers are purple still, 

To those that gaze from Toller-hill ; 

Distant and high, the tower of Bowes 

Like steel upon the anvil glows ; 

And Stanmore's ridge, behind that lay, 

Rich with the spoils of parting day, 

In crimson and in gold array 'd, 

Streaks yet a while the closing shade, 

Then slow resigns to darkening heaven 

The tints which brighter hours had given. 

Thus aged men, full loth and slow, 

The vanities of life forego, 

And count their youthful follies o'er, 

Till Memory lends her light no more. 

II. 
The eve, that slow on upland fades, 
Has darker closed on Rokeby's glades, 
Where, sunk within their banks profound, 
Her guardian streams to meeting wound. 



ROKEBY. 



2It 



The stately oaks, whose sombre frown 
Of noontide made a twilight brown, 
Impervious now to fainter light, 
Of twilight make an early night. 
Hoarse into middle air arose 
The vespers of the roosting crows, 
And with congenial murmurs seem 
To wake the Genii of the stream ; 
For louder clamour" d Greta's tide, 
And Tees in deeper voice replied. 
And fitful waked the evening wind, 
Fitful in sighs its breath resign'd. 
Wilfrid, whose fancy-nurtured soul 
Felt in the scene a soft control, 
With lighter footstep press'd the ground, 
And often paused to look around ; 
And, though his path was to his love, 
Could not but linger in the grove, 
To drink the thrilling interest dear, 
Of awful pleasure check'd by fear. 
Such inconsistent moods have we, 
Even when our passions strike the key. 



Now, through the wood's dark mazes 

past, 
The opening lawn he reach'd at last, 
Where, silver'd by the moonlight ray, 
The ancient Hall before him lay. 
Those martial terrors long were fled, 
That frown' d of old around its head : 
The battlements, the turrets gray, 
Seem'd half abandon'd to decay ;47 
On barbican and keep of stone 
Stern Time the foeman's work had done. 
Where banners the invader braved, 
The harebell now and wallflower waved ; 
In the rude guard-room, where of yore 
Their weary hours the warders wore, 
Now, while the cheerful fagots blaze, 
On the paved floor the spindle plays ; 
The flanking guns dismounted lie, 
The moat is ruinous aud dry, 
The grim portcullis gone — and all 
The fortress turn'd to peaceful Hall. 



But yet precautions, lately ta'en, 

Show'd danger's day revived again ; 

The court-yard wall show'd marks of care, 

The fali'n defences to repair, 

Lending such strength as might withstand, 

The insult of marauding band. 

The beams once more were taught to bear 

The trembling drawbridge into air, 

And not, till question'd o'er and o'er, 

For Wilfrid oped the jealous door, 



And when he enter'd, bolt and bar 
Resumed their place with sullen jar ; 
Then, as he cross'd the vaulted porch, 
The old gray porter raised his torch, 
And view'd him o'er, from foot to head, 
Ere to the hall his steps he led. 
That huge old hall, of knightly state, 
Dismantled seem'd and desolate. 
The moon through transom-shafts of stone, 
Which cross'd the latticed oriels, shone, 
And by the mournful light she gave, 
The Gothic vault seem'd funeral cave. 
Pennon and banner waved no more 
O'er beams of stag and tusks of boar, 
Norglimmeringarmswere marshall'd seen, 
To glance those sylvan spoils between. 
Those arms, those ensigns, borne away, 
Accomplish'd Rokeby's brave array 
But all were lost on Marston's day ! 
Yet here and there the moonbeams fall 
Where armour yet adorns the wall, 
Cumbrous of size, uncouth to sight, 
And useless in the modern fight ! 
Like veteran relic of the wars, 
Known only by neglected scars. 



Matilda'soon to greet him came, 
And bade them light the evening flame ; 
Said, all for parting was prepared, 
And tarried but for Wilfrid's guard. 
But then, reluctant to unfold 
His father's avarice of gold, 
He hinted, that lest jealous eye 
Should on their precious burden pry, 
He judged it best the castle gate 
To enter when the night wore late ; 
And therefore he had left command 
With those he trusted of his band, 
That they should be at Rokeby met, 
What time the midnight-watch was set. 
Now Redmond came, whose anxious care 
Till then was busied to prepare 
All needful, meetly to arrange 
The mansion for its mournful change. 
With Wilfrid's care and kindness pleased, 
His cold unready hand he seized, 
And press'd it, till his kindly strain 
The gentle youth return'd again. 
Seem'd as between them this was said, 
" A while let jealousy be dead ; 
And let our contest be, whose care 
Shall best assist this helpless fair." 

VI. 

There was no speech the truce to bind, 
It was a compact of the mind,— 



212 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



A generous thought, at once impress'd 

On either rival's generous breast. 

Matilda well the secret took, 

From sudden change of mien and look ; 

And — for not small had been her fear 

Of jealous ire and danger near — 

Felt, even in her dejected state, 

A joy beyond the reach of fate. 

They closed beside the chimney's blaze, 

And talk'd and hoped for happier days, 

And lent their spirits' rising glow 

A while to gild impending woe ; — 

High privilege of youthful time, 

Worth all the pleasures of our prime ! 

The bickering fagot sparkled bright, 

And gave the scene of love to sight, 

Bade Wilfrid's cheek more lively glow, 

Play'd on Matilda's neck of snow, 

Her nut-brown curls and forehead high, 

And laugh' d in Redmond's azure eye. 

Two lovers by the maiden sate, 

Without a glance of jealous hate ; 

The maid her lovers sat between, 

With open brow and equal mien ; — 

It is a sight but rarely spied, 

Thanks to man's wrath and woman's pride. 

VII. 

While thus in peaceful guise they sate, 
A knx>ck alarm'd the outer gate, 
And ere the tardy porter stirr'd, 
The tinkling of a harp was heard. 
A manly voice of mellow swell, 
Bore burden to the music well. 

SONG. 

" Summer eve is gone and past, 
Summer dew is falling fast ; — 
I have wander'd all the day, 
Do not bid me farther stray ! 
Gentle hearts, of gentle kin, 
Take the wandering harper in!" 

But the stern porter answer gave, 

With ' ' Get thee hence, thou strolling 

knave ; 
The king wants soldiers ; war, I trow, 
Were meeter trade for such as thou." 
At this unkind reproof, again 
Answer'd the ready Minstrel's strain. 

SONG RESUMED. 
" Bid not me, in battle-field, 
Buckler lift, or broadsword wield ! 
All my strength and all my art 
Is to touch the gentle heart, 
With the wizard notes that ring 
From the peaceful minstrel-string." 



The porter, all unmoved, replied, — 
" Depart in peace, with Heaven to guide; 
If longer by the gate thou dwell, 
Trust me, thou shalt not part so well." 

VIII. 

With somewhat of appealing look, 

The harper's part young Wilfrid took : 

"These notes so wild and ready thrill, 

They show no vulgar minstrel's skill ; 

Hard were his task to seek a home 

More distant, since the night is come; 

And for his faith I dare engage — 

Your Harpool's blood is sour'd by age ; 

His gate, once readily display'd, 

To greet the friend, the poor to aid, 

Now even to me, though known of old, 

Did but reluctantly unfold." 

" O blame not, as poor Harpool's crime, 

An evil of this evil time. 

He deems dependent on his care 

The safety of his patron's heir, 

Nor judges meet to ope the tower 

To guest unknown at parting hour, 

Urging his duty to excess 

Of rough and stubborn faithfulness. 

For this poor harper, I would fain 

He may relax : — Hark to his strain!" — 

IX. 
SONG RESUMED. 

' ' I have song of war for knight, 
Lay of love for lady bright, 
Fairy tale to lull the heir, 
Goblin grim the maids to scare. 
Dark the night, and long till day, 
Do not bid me farther stray ! 

' ' Rokeby's lords of martial fame, 
I can count them name by name ; 
Legends of their line there be, 
Known to few, but known to me ; 
If you honour Rokeby's kin, 
Take the wandering harper in ! 

' ' Rokeby's lords had fair regard 
For the harp, and for the bard : 
Baron's race throve never well, 
Where the curse of minstrel fell. 
If you love that noble kin, 
Take the weary harper in ! " — 

' ' Hark ! Harpool parleys — there is hope, " 
Said Redmond, "that the gate will ope."— 
--' ' For all thy brag and boast, I trow, 
Nought know'st thou of the Felon Sow, " & 
Quoth Harpool, ' ' nor how Greta-side ■ 
She roam'd, and Rokeby forest wide ; 



ROKEBY. 



213 



Now how Ralph Rokeby gave the beast 
To Richmond's friars to make a feast. 
Of Gilbert Griffinson the tale 
Goes, and of gallant Peter Dale, 
That well could strike with sword amain, 
And of the valiant son of Spain, 
Friar Middleton, and blithe Sir Ralph : 
There was a jest to make us laugh ! 
If thou canst tell it, in yon shed 
Thou'st won thy supper and thy bed." 

x. 

Matilda smiled ; " Cold hope," said she, 
" From Harpool's love of minstrelsy ! 
But, for this harper, may we dare, 
Redmond, to mend his couch and fare?" — 
" O, ask me not! — At minstrel-string 
My heart from infancy would spring ; 
Nor can I hear its simplest strain, 
But it brings Erin's dream again, 
When placed by Owen Lysagh's knee, 
(The Filea of O'Neale was he, 49 
A blind and bearded man, whose eld 
Was sacred as a prophet's held,) 
I've seen a ring of rugged kerne, 
With aspects shaggy, wild, and stern, 
Enchanted by the master's lay, 
Linger around the livelong day, 
Shift from wild rage to wilder glee, 
To love, to grief, to ecstasy, 
And feel each varied change of soul 
Obedient to the bard's control. — 
Ah, Clandeboy! thy friendly floor 
Slieve-Donard's oak shall light no more ; s° 
Nor Owen's harp, beside the blaze, 
Tell maiden's love, or hero's praise ! 
The mantling brambles hide thy hearth, 
Centre of hospitable mirth ; 
All undistinguish'd in the glade, 
My sires' glad home is prostrate laid, 
Their vassals wander wide and far, 
Serve foreign lords in distant war, 
And now the stranger's sons enjoy 
The lovely woods of Clandeboy!" 
He spoke, and proudly turn'd aside, 
The starting tear to dry and hide. 

XI. 

Matilda's dark and soften'd eye 
Was glistening ere O'Neale's was dry. 
Her hand upon his arm she laid, — 
" It is the will of Heaven," she said. 
"And think'st thou, Redmond, I can part 
From this loved home with lightsome 

heart, 
Leaving to wild neglect whate'er 
Even from my infancy was dear? 



For in this calm domestic bound 

Were all Matilda's pleasures found. 

That hearth, my sire was wont to grace, 

Full soon may be a stranger's place ; 

This hall, in which a child I play'd, 

Like thine, dear Redmond, lowly laid, 

The bramble and the thorn may braid ; 

Or, pass'd for aye from me and mine, 

It ne'er may shelter Rokeby's line. 

Yet is this consolation given, 

My Redmond — 'tis the will of Heaven." 

Her word, her action, and her phrase, 

Were kindly as in early days ; 

For cold reserve had lost its power, 

In sorrow's sympathetic hour. 

Young Redmond dared not trust his voice : 

But rather had it been his choice 

To share that melancholy hour, 

Than, arm'd with all a chieftain's power, 

In full possession to enjoy 

Slieve-Donard wide, and Clandeboy. 



The blood left Wilfrid's ashen cheek ; 
Matilda sees, and hastes to speak. — 
" Happy in friendship's ready aid, 
Let all my murmurs here be staid ! 
And Rokeby's Maiden will not part 
From Rokeby's hall with moody heart. 
This night at least, for Rokeby's fame, 
The hospitable hearth shall fiarne, 
And, ere its native heir retire, 
Find for the wanderer rest and fire, 
While this poor harper, by the blaze, 
Recounts the tale of other days. 
Bid Harpool ope the door with speed, 
Admit him, and relieve each need. — 
Meantime, kind Wycliffe, wilt thou try 
Thy minstrel skill? — Nay, no reply — 
And look not sad ! — I guess thy thought, 
Thy verse with laurels would be bought ; 
And poor Matilda, landless now, 
Has not a garland for thy brow. 
True, I must leave sweet Rokeby's glades, 
Nor wander more in Greta's shades ; 
But sure, no rigid jailer, thou 
Wilt a short prison-walk allow, 
Where summer flowers grow wild at 

will, 
On Marwood-chase and Toller Hill; 5* 
Then holly green and lily gay 
Shall twine in guerdon of thy lay." 
The mournful youth, a space aside, 
To tune Matilda's harp applied ; 
And then a low sad descant rung, 
As prelude to the lay he sung, 



214 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE CYPRESS YVREATH. 

O, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 
Too lively glow the lilies light, 
The varnish'd holly 's all too bright, 
The May-flower and the eglantine 
May shade a brow less sad than mine; 
But, Lady, weave no wreath for me, 
Or weave' it of the cypress-tree ! 

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine 
With tendrils of the laughing vine ; 
The manly oak, the pensive yew, 
To patriot and to sage be due ; 
The myrtle bough bids lovers live, 
But that Matilda will not give ; 
Then, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree ! 

Let merry England proudly rear 
Her blended roses, bought so dear ; 
Let Albin bind her bonnet blue 
With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew ; 
On favour d Erin's crest be seen 
The flower she loves of emerald green — 
But, Lady, twine no wreath for me, 
Or twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Strike the wild harp, while maids pre- 
pare 
The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; 
And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, 
With bloody hand the victor weaves, 
Let the loud trump his triumph tell ; 
But, when you hear the passing-bell, 
Then, Lady, twine a wreath for me, 
And twine it of the cypress-tree. 

Yes ! twine for me the cypress bough ; 
But, O Matilda, twine not now ! 
Stay till a few brief months are past, 
And I have look'd and loved my last ! 
When villagers my shroud bestrew 
With pansies, rosemary, and rue, — 
Then, Lady, weave a wreath for me, 
And weave it of the cypress-tree. 

XIV. 

O'Neale observed the starting tear, 

And spoke with kind and blithesome 

cheer — 
" No, noble Wilfrid! ere the day 
When mourns the land thy silent lay, 
Shall many a wreath be freely wove 
By hand of friendship and of love. 
I would not wish that rigid Fate 
Had doom'd thee to a captive's state, 



Whose hands are bound by honour's law, 
Who wears a sword he must not draw ; 
But were it so, in Minstrel pride 
The land together would we ride, 
On prancing steeds, like harpers old, 
Bound for the halls of barons bold, 
Each lover of the lyre we'd seek, 
From Michael's Mount to Skiddaw's 

Peak, 
Survey wild Albin's mountain strand, 
And roam green Erin's lovely land, 
While thou the gentler souls should move, 
With lay of pity and of love, 
And I, thy mate, in rougher strain, 
Would sing of war and warriors slain. 
Old England's bards were vanquished then, 
And Scotland's vaunted Hawthornden, 
And, silenced on lernian shore, • 
M'Curtin's harp should charm no more !" 
In lively mood he spoke, to wile 
From Wilfrid's woe-worn cheek a smile. 



"But," said Matilda, " ere thy name, 
Good Redmond, gain its destined fame, 
Say, wilt thou kindly deign to call 
Thy brother-minstrel to the hall ? 
Bid all the household, too, attend, 
Each in his rank a humble friend ; 
I know their faithful hearts will grieve, 
When their poor Mistress takes her leave; 
So let the horn and beaker flow 
To mitigate their parting woe." 
The harper came ; — in youth's first prime 
Himself; in mode of olden time 
His garb was fashion'd, to express 
The ancient English minstrel's dress, S 3 
A seemly gown of Kendal green, 
With gorget closed of silver sheen ; 
His harp in silken scarf was slung, 
And by his side an anlace hung. 
It seem'd some masquer's quaint array, 
For revel or for holiday. 

XVI. 

He made obeisance with a free 
Yet studied air of courtesy. 
Each look and accent, framed to please, 
Seem'd to affect a playful ease ; 
His face was of that doubtful kind, 
That wins the eye, but not the mind ; 
Yet harsh it seem'd to deem amiss 
Of brow so young and smooth as this. 
His was the subtle look and sly, 
That, spying all, seems nought to spy ; 
Round all the group his glances stole,' 
Unmark'd themselves, to mark the whole. 



ROKEBY. 



Yet sunk beneath Matilda's look, 
Nor could the eye of Redmond brook. 
To the suspicious, or the old, 
Subtile and dangerous and bold 
Had seem'd this self-invited guest ; 
But young our lovers, — and the rest, 
Wrapt in their sorrow and their fear 
At parting of their Mistress dear, 
Tear-blinded to the Castle-hall 
Came as to bear her funeral pall . 

XVII. 

All that expression base was gone, 
When waked the guest his minstrel tone ; 
It fled at inspiration's call, 
As erst the demon fled from Saul. 
More noble glance he cast around, 
More free-drawn breath inspired the sound, 
His pulse beat bolder and more high, 
In all the pride of minstrelsy ! 
Alas! too soon that pride was o'er, 
Sunk with the lay that bade it soar ! 
His soul resumed, with habit's chain, 
Its vices wild and follies vain, 
And gave the talent, with him born, 
To be a common curse and scorn. 
Such was the youth whom Rokeby's Maid, 
With condescending kindness, pray'd 
Here to renew the strains she loved, 
At distance heard and well approved. 



SONG. 

The Harp. 
I was a wild and wayward boy, 
My childhood scorn'd each childish toy, 
Retired from all, reserved and coy, 

To musing prone, 
I woo'd my solitary joy, 

My Harp alone. 

My youth, with bold Ambition's mood, 
Despised the humble stream and wood, 
Where ray poor father's cottage stood, 

To fame unknown ; — 
What should my soaring views make good ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Love came with all his frantic fire, 
And wild romance of vain desire : 
The baron's daughter heard my lyre, 

And praised the tone ; — 
What could presumptuous hope inspire? 

My Harp alone ! 

At manhood's touch the bubble burst, 
And manhood's pride the vision curst, 



And all that had my folly nursed 

Love's sway to own ; 
Yet spared the spell that lull'd me first, 

My Harp alone ! 

Woe came with war, and want with woe ; 
And it was mine to undergo 
Each outrage of the rebel foe : — 

Can aught atone 
My fields laid waste, my cot laid low ? 

My Harp alone ! 

Ambition's dreams I've seen depart, 
Have rued of penury the smart, 
Have felt of love the venom'd dart, 

When hope was flown ; 
Yet rests one solace to my heart, — 

My Harp alone ! 

Then over mountain, moor, and hill, 
My faithful Harp, I'll bear thee still ; 
And when this life of want and ill 

Is wellnigh gone, 
Thy strings mine elegy shall thrill, 

My Harp alone ! 

XIX. 

"A pleasing lay! " Matilda said ; 
But Harpool shook his old gray head, 
And took his baton and his torch, 
To seek his guard-room in the porch. 
•Edmund observed, with sudden change, 
Among the strings his fingers range, 
Until they waked a bolder glee 
Of military melody ; 
Then paused amid the martial sound, 
And look'd with well-feign' d fear around ;— 
" None to this noble house belong," 
He said, " that would a Minstrel wrong, 
Whose fate has been, through good and 

ill, v 

To love his Royal Master still ; 
And with your honour'd leave, would fain 
Rejoice you with a loyal strain." 
Then, as assured by sign and look, 
The warlike tone again he took ; 
And Harpool stopp'd, and turn'd to hear 
A ditty of the Cavalier. 

xx. 

SONG. 

The Cavalier. 

While the dawn on the mountain was 

misty and gray, 
My true love has mounted his steed and 

away 



2l6 



r'S POETICAL WORKS. 



(her hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er 

down : 
Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 

for the Crown ! 

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast- 
plate (o bear, 

He lias placed the steel-cap o'er his long 
flowing hair, 

From his belt to his stirrup his broad- 
sword hangs down, — 

I leaven shield the brave Gallant that fights 
for the Crown ! 

For the rights of fair England that broad- 
sword he draws, 

Her King is his leader, her Church is his 
cause ; 

His watchword is honour, his pay is re- 
nown, — 

God strike with the Gallant that strikes 
for the Crown ! 

They may boast of their Fairfax, their 
Waller, and all 

The round-headed rebels of Westminster 
Hall ; 

But tell these bold traitors of London's 
proud town, 

That the spears of the North have en- 
circled the Crown. 

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of 
their foes ; 

There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scot- 
land's Montrose ! 

Would you match the base Skippon, and 
Massey, and Brown, 

With the Barons of England, that fight 
for the Crown? 

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier ! 
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his 

spear, 
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he 

may drown, 
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, 

and her Crown. 

XXI. 

"Alas!" Matilda said, "that strain, 
Good harper, now is heard in vain ! 
The time has been, at such a sound, 
When Rokeby's vassals gather'd round, 
An hundred manly hearts would bound ; 
But now the stirring verse we hear, 
Like trump in dying soldier's ear ! 
Listless and sad the notes we own, 
The power to answer them is flown. 



Vet not without his meet applause, 

Be he that sings the rightful cause, 

Even when the crisis of its fate 

To human eye seems desperate. 

While Rokeby's Heir such power retains, 

Let this slight guerdon pay thy pains : — 

And, lend thy harp ; I fain would try, 

If my poor skill can aught supply, 

Ere yet I leave my father's hall, 

To mourn the cause in which we fall." 

XXII. 
The harper, with a downcast look, 
And trembling hand, her bounty took. — 
As yet, the conscious pride of art 
Had steel'd him in his treacherous part ; 
A powerful spring, of force unguess'd, 
That hath each gentler mood suppress'd, 
And reign'd in many a human breast ; 
From his that plans the red campaign, 
To his that wastes the woodland reign. 
The failing wing, the blood-shot eye, — 
The sportsman marks with apathy, 
Each feeling of his victim's ill 
Drown'd in his own successful skill. 
The veteran, too, who now no more 
Aspires to head the battle's roar, 
Loves still the triumph of his art, 
And traces on the pencill'd chart 
Some stern invader's destined way 
Through blood and ruin, to his prey ; 
Patriots to death, and towns to flame, 
He dooms, to raise another's name, 
And shares the guilt, though not the fame. 
What pays him for his span of time 
Spent in premeditating crime? 
What against pity arms his heart? — 
It is the conscious pride of art. 



But principles in Edmund's mind 
Were baseless, vague, and undefined. 
His soul, like bark with rudder lost, 
On Passion's changeful tide was tost, 
Nor Vice nor Virtue had the power 
Beyond the impression of the hour ; 
And, O ! when Passion rules, how rare 
The hours that fall to Virtue's share ! 
Yet now she roused her — for the pride, 
That lack of sterner guilt supplied, 
Could scarce support him when arose 
The lay that mourned Matilda's woes. 

SONG. 
The Farewell. 
The sound of Rokeby's woods I hear, 



They mingle with the song : 



ROKEBY. 



217 



Dark Greta's voice is in mine ear 

I must not hear them long. 
From every loved and native haunt 

The native Heir must stray, 
And, like a ghost whom sunbeams daunt, 

Must part before the day. 

Soon from the halls my fathers rear'd, 

Their scutcheons may descend. 
A line so long beloved and fear'd 

May soon obscurely end. 
No longer here Matilda's tone 

Shall bid those echoes swell ; 
Yet shall they hear her proudly own 

The cause in which we fell. 

The Lady paused, and then again 
Resumed the lay in loftier stra ; n. 

XXIV. 

Let our halls and towers decay, 

Be our name and line forgot, 
Lands and manors pass away, — 

We but share our Monarch's lot. 
If no more our annals show 

Battles won and banners taken, 
Still in death, defeat, and woe, 

Ours be loyalty unshaken ! 

Constant still in danger's hour, 

Princes own'd our fathers' aid ; 
Lands and honours, wealth and power, 

Well their loyalty repaid. 
Perish wealth, and power, and pride ! 

Mortal boons by mortals given ; 
But let constancy abide, — 

Constancy's the gift of Heaven. 

XXV. 

While thus Matilda's lay was heard, 
A thousand thoughts in Edmund stirr'd. 
In peasant life he might have known 
As fair a face, as sweet a tone : 
But village notes could ne'er supply- 
That rich and varied melody ; 
And ne'er in cottage-maid was seen 
The easy dignity of mien, 
Claiming respect, yet waving state, 
That marks the daughters of the great. 
Yet not, perchance, had these alone 
His scheme of purposed guilt o'erthrown ; 
But while her energy of mind 
Superior rose to griefs combined, 
Lending its kindling to her eye, 
Giving her form new majesty, — 
To Edmund's thought Matilda seem'd 
The very object he had dream'd ; 
When, long ere guilt his soul had known, 
In Winston bowers he mused alone, 



Taxing his fancy to combine 

The face, the air, the voice divine, 

Of princess fair, by cruel fate 

Reft of her honours, power, and state, 

Till to her rightful realm restored 

By destined hero's conquering sword. 

XXVI. 

' ' Such was my vision ! " Edmund thought ; 

"And have I, then, the ruin wrought 

Of such a maid, that fancy ne'er 

In fairest vision form'd her peer? 

Was it my hand that could unclose 

The postern to her ruthless foes? 

Foes, lost to honour, law, and faith, 

Their kindest mercy sudden death ! 

Have I done this? I ! who have swore, 

That if the globe such angel bore, 

I would have traced its circle broad, 

To kiss the ground on which she trode ! — 

And now— O ! would that earth would rive 

And close upon me while alive ! — 

Is there no hope? Is all then lost? — > 

Bertram's already on his post ! 

Even now, beside the Hall's arch'd door, 

I saw his shadow cross the floor ! 

He was to wait my signal strain — 

A little respite thus we gain : 

By what I heard the menials say, 

Young Wycliffe's troop are on their way — 

Alarm precipitates the crime ! 

My harp must wear away the time." — 

And then, in accents faint and low, 

He falter'd forth a tale of woe. 

XXVII. 
BALLAD. 

"And whither would you lead me then?" 

Quoth the Friar of orders gray ; 
And the Ruffians twain replied again, 

" By a dying woman to pray." 
"I see," he said, " a lovely sight, 

A sight bodes little harm, 
A lady as a lily bright, 

With an infant on her arm." — 

"Then do thine office, Friar gray, 

And see thou shrive her free? 
Else shall the sprite, that parts to-night, 

Fling all its guilt on thee. 

" Let mass be said, and trentals read, 
When thou'rt to convent gone, 

And bid the bell of St. Benedict 
Toll out its deepest tone." 

The shrift is done, the Friar is gone, 
Blindfolded as he came— 



2X8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Next morning, all in Littlecot HallS3 
Were weeping for their dame. 

Wild Darrell is an alter" d man, 

The village crones can tell ; 
He looks pale as clay, and strives to pray, 

If he hears the convent bell. 

If prince or peer cross Darrell's way, 
He'll beard him in his pride — 

If he meet a Friar of orders gray, 
He droops and turns aside. 

xxvnr. 
" Harper ! methinks thy magic lays," 
Matilda said, "can goblins raise ! 
Wellnigh my fancy can discern, 
Near the dark porch, a visage stern ; 
E'en now, in yonder shadowy nook, 
I see it ! — Redmond, Wilfrid, look ! — 
A human form distinct and clear — 
God for thy mercy ! — It draws near !" 
She saw too true. .Stride after stride, 
The centre of that chamber wide 
Fierce Bertram gain'd ; then made a stand, 
And, proudly waving with his hand, 
Thunder'd — " Be still, upon your lives! — 
He bleeds who speaks, he dies who strives." 
Behind their chief, the robber crew 
Forth from the darken'd portal drew 
In silence — save that echo dread 
Return' d their heavy measured tread. 
The lamp's uncertain lustre gave 
Their arms to gleam, their plumes to wave ; 
File after file in order pass, 
Like forms on Banquo's mystic glass. 
Then, halting at their leader's sign, 
At once they form'd and curved their line, 
Hemming within its crescent drear 
Their victims like a herd of deer. 
Another sign, and to the aim 
Levell'd at once their muskets came, 
As waiting but their chieftain's word, 
To make their fatal volley heard. 

XXIX. 
Back in a heap the menials drew ; 
Yet, even in mortal terror, true, 
Their pale and startled group oppose 
Between Matilda and the foes. 
" O, haste thee, Wilfrid ! " Redmond cried ; 
' ' Undo that wicket by thy side ! 
Bear hence Matilda — gain the wood — 
The pass may be a while made good — 
Thy band, ere this, must sure be nigh — 
O speak not— dally not — but fly ! " 
While yet the crowd their motions hide, ' 
Through the low wicket door they glide. 



Through vaulted passages they wind, 
In Gothic intricacy twined ; 
Wilfrid half led, and half he bore, 
Matilda to the postern-door, 
And safe beneath the forest tree, 
The Lady stands at liberty. 
The moonbeams, the fresh gale's caress, 
Renew'd suspended consciousness ; — 
"Where's Redmond?" eagerly she cries; 
"Thou answer'st not — he dies ! he dies! 
And thou hast left him, all bereft 
Of mortal aid — with murderers left ! 
I know it well — he would not yield 
His sword to man— his doom is seal'd ! 
For my scorn 'd life, which thou hast bought 
At price of his, I thank thee not." 

XXX. 

The unjust reproach, the angry look, 
The heart of Wilfrid could not brook. 
" Lady," he said, " my band is near, 
In safety thou mayst rest thee here. 
For Redmond's death thou shalt not 

mourn, 
If mine can buy his safe return." 
He turn'd away — his heart throbb'd high, 
The tear was bursting from his eye ; 
The sense of her injustice press'd 
Upon the Maid's distracted breast, — 
' ' Stay, Wilfrid, .stay ! all aid is vain ! ' ' 
He heard, but turn'd him not again ; 
He reaches now the postern-door, 
Now enters — and is seen no more. 

XXXI. 

With all the agony that e'er 
Was gender'd 'twixt suspense and fear, 
She watch'd the line of windows tall, 
Whose Gothic lattice lights the Hall, 
Distinguish'd by the paly red 
The lamps' in dim reflection shed, 
While all beside in wan moonlight 
Each grated casement glimmer'd white. 
No sight of harm, no sound of ill, 
It is a deep and midnight still. 
Who look'd upon the scene, had guess'd 
All in the Castle were at rest : 
When sudden on the windows shone 
A lightning flash, just seen and gone ! 
A shot is heard — Again the flame 
Flash'd thick and fast — a volley came ! 
Then echo'd wildly, from within, 
Of shout and scream the mingled din, 
And weapon-crash and maddening cry, 
Of those who kill, and those who die ! — 
As fill'd the Hall with sulphurous smoke, 
More red, more dark, the death-flash 
broke : 



ROKEBY. 



219 



And forms were on the lattice cast, 
That struck, or struggled, as they past. 

xxxir. 

What sounds upon the midnight wind 
Approach so rapidly behind? 
It is, it is, the tramp of steeds, 
Matilda hears the sound, she speeds, 
Seizes upon the leader's rein — 
" O, haste to aid, ere aid be vain ! 
Fly to the postern — gain the Hall ! " 
From saddle spring the troopers all ; 
Their gallant steeds, at liberty, 
Run wild along the moonlight lea. 
But, ere they burst upon the scene, 
Full stubborn had the conflict been. 
When Bertram mark'd Matilda's flight, 
It gave the signal for the fight ; 
And Rokeby's veterans, seam'd with scars 
Of Scotland's and of Erin's wars, 
Their momentary panic o'er, 
Stood to the arms which then they bore : 
(For they were weapon" d, and prepared 
Their Mistress on her way to guard.) 
Then cheer'd them to the fight O'Neale, 
Then peal'd the shot, and clash'd the steel ; 
The war-smoke soon with sable breath 
Darken'd the scene of blood and death, 
While on the few defenders close 
The Bandits, with redoubled blows, 
And, twice driven back, yet fierce and fell 
Renew the charge with frantic yell. 

xxxur. 
Wilfrid has fall'n — but o'er him stood 
Young Redmond, soil'd with smoke and 

blood, 
Cheering his mates with heart and hand 
Still to make good their desperate stand. 
" Up, comrades, up ! In Rokeby halls 
Ne'er be it said our courage falls. 
What ! faint ye for their savage cry, 
Or do the smoke-wreaths daunt your eye ? 
These rafters have return'd a shout 
As loud at Rokeby's wassail rout, 
As thick a smoke these hearths have given 
At Hallow-tide or Christmas-even.54 
Stand to it yet ! renew the fight, 
For Rokeby's and Matilda's right ! 
These slaves ! they dare not, hand to hand, 
Bide buffet from a true man's brand. " 
Impetuous, active, fierce, and young, 
Upon the advancing foes he sprung. 
Woe to the wretch at whom is bent 
His brandish'd falchion's sheer descent ! 
Backward they scatter'd as he came, 
Like wolves before the levin flame. 



When, 'mid their howling conclave driven,, 
Hath glanced the thunderbolt of heaven. 
Bertram rush'd on — but Harpool clasp'd 
His knees, although in death he gasp'd, 
His falling corpse before him flung, 
And round the trammell'd ruffian clung. 
Just then, the soldiers fill'd the dome, 
And, shouting, charged the felons homo 
So fiercely, that, in panic dread, 
They broke, they yielded, fell, or fled. 
Bertram's stem voice they heed no more, 
Though heard above the battle's roar ; 
While, trampling down the dying man, 
He strove, with volley'd threat and ban, 
In scorn of odds, in fate's despite, 
To rally up the desperate fight. 

xxxiv. 
Soon murkier clouds the Hall enfold 
Than e'er from battle-thunders roll'd ; 
So dense, the combatants scarce know 
To aim or to avoid the blow. 
Smothering and blindfold grows the fight — 
But soon shall dawn a dismal light ! 
'Mid cries, and clashing arms, there 

came 
The hollow sound of rushing flame ; 
New horrors on the tumult dire 
Arise — the Castle is on fire ! 
Doubtful, if chance had cast the brand, 
Or frantic Bertram's desperate hand. 
Matilda saw — for frequent broke 
From the dim casements gusts of smoke. 
Yon tower, which late so clear defined 
On the fair hemisphere reclined, 
That, pencill'd on its azure pure, 
The eye could count each embrazure, 
Now, swathed within the sweeping cloud, 
Seems giant-spectre in his shroud ; 
Till, from each loop-hole flashing light, 
A spout of fire shines ruddy bright, 
And, gathering to united glare, 
Streams high into the midnight air ; 
A dismal beacon, far and wide 
That waken 'd Greta's si umbering, side. 
Soon all beneath, through gallery long, 
And pendant arch the fire flash' d strong, 
Snatching whatever could maintain, 
Raise, or extend, its furious reign; 
Startling, with closer cause of dread, 
The females who the conflict fled, 
And now rush'd forth upon the plain, 
Filling the air with clamours vain. 

xxxv. 
But ceased not yet, the Hall within, 
The shriek, the shout, the carnage-din, 



220 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till bursting lattices give proof 

The flames have caught the rafter'd roof. 

What ! wait they till its beams amain 

Crash on the slavers and the slain? 

The alarm is caught —the drawbridge falls, 

The warriors hurry from the walls, 

Rut, by the conflagration's light, 

Upon the lawn renew the fight. 

Each struggling felon down was hew'd, 

Not one could gain the sheltering wood ; 

But forth the affrighted harper sprung, 

And to Matilda's robe he clung. 

Her shriek, entreaty, and command, 

Stopp'd the pursuer's lifted hand. 

Denzil and he alive were ta'en ; 

The rest, save Bertram, all are slain. 

xxxvi. 
And where is Bertram ? — Soaring high 
The general flame ascends the sky ; 
In gather'd group the soldiers gaze 
Upon the broad and roaring blaze, 
When, like infernal demon, sent, 
Red from his penal element, 
To plague and to pollute the air, — 
His face all gore, on fire his hair, 
Forth from the central mass of smoke 
The giant form of Bertram broke ! 
His brandish 'd sword on high he rears, 
Then plunged among opposing spears ; 
Round his left arm his mantle truss'd, 
Received and foil'd three lances' thrust ; 
Nor these his headlong course withstood, 
Like reeds he snapp'd the tough ash-wood. 
In vain his foes around him clung ; 
With matchless force aside he flung 
Their boldest, — as the bull, at bay, 
Tosses the ban-dogs from his way, 
Through forty foes his path he made, 
And safely gain'd the forest glade. 

XXXVII. 

Scarce was this final conflict o'er, 
When from the postern Redmond bore 
Wilfrid, who, as of life bereft, 
Had in the fatal Hall been left. 
Deserted there by all his train : 
But Redmond saw, and turn'd again. — 
Beneath an oak he laid him down, 
That in the blaze gleam'd ruddy brown, 
And then his mantle's clasp undid ; 
Matilda held his drooping head, 
Till, given to breathe the freer air, 
Returning life repaid their care. 
He gazed on them with heavy sigh, — 
" I could have wish'd even thus to die!" 
No more he said — for now with speed 
Each trooper had regain'd his steed ; 



The ready palfreys stood array' d, 
For Redmond and for Rokeby's Maid ; 
Two Wilfrid on his horse sustain, 
One leads his charger by the rein. 
But oft Matilda look'd behind, 
As up the Vale of Tees they wind, 
Where far the mansion of her sires 
Beacon'd the dale with midnight fires. 
In gloomy arch above them spread, 
The clouded heaven lower' d bloody red; 
Beneath, in sombre light, the flood 
Appear' d to roll in waves of blood. 
Then, one by one, was heard to fall 
The tower, the donjon-keep, the hall, 
Each rushing down with thunder sound, 
A space the conflagration drown'd ; 
Till, gathering strength, again it rose, 
Announced its triumph in its close, 
Shook wide its light the landscape o'er, 
Then sunk — and Rokeby was no more ! 



CANTO SIXTH. 



The summer sun, whose early power 
Was wont to gild Matilda's bower, 
And rouse her with his matin ray 
Her duteous orisons to pay, 
That morning sun had three times seen 
The flowers unfold on Rokeby green, 
But sees no more the slumbers fly 
From fair Matilda's hazel eye ; 
That morning sun has three times broke 
On Rokeby's glades of elm and oak, 
But, rising from their sylvan screen, 
Marks no gray turrets glance between. 
A shapeless mass lie keep and tower, 
That, hissing to the morning shower, 
Can but with smouldering vapour pay 
The early smile of summer day. 
The peasant, to his labour bound, 
Pauses to view the blacken'd mound, 
Striving, amid the ruin'd space, 
Each well-remember'd spot to trace. 
That length of frail and fi re-scorch' d wall 
Once screen'd the hospitable hail ; 
When yonder broken arch was whole, 
'Twas there was dealt the weekly dole ; 
And where yon tottering columns nod, 
The chapel sent the hymn to God. — 
So flits the world's uncertain span ! 
Nor zeal for God, nor love for man, 
Gives mortal monuments a date 
Beyond the power of Time and Fate. 



ROKEBY. 



22t 



The towers must share the builder's doom ; 
Ruin is theirs, and his a tomb : 
But better boon benignant Heaven 
To Faith and Charity has given, 
And bids the Christian hope sublime 
Transcend the bounds of Fate and Time. 



Now the third night of summer came, 
Since that which witness'd Rokeby's flame. 
On Brignall cliffs and Scargill brake 
The owlet's homilies awake, 
The bittern scream'd from rush and flag, 
The raven slumber'd on his crag, 
Forth from his den the otter drew,—-. 
Grayling and trout their tyrant knew, 
As between reed and sedge he peers, 
With fierce round snout and sharpen'd ears, 
Or, prowling by the moonbeam cool, 
Watches the stream or swims the pool; — 
Perch'd on his wonted eyrie high, 
Sleep seal'd the tercelet's wearied eye, 
That all the day had watch'd so well 
The cushat dart across the dell. 
In dubious beam reflected shone 
That lofty cliff of pale gray stone, 
Beside whose base the secret cave 
To rapine late a refuge gave. 
The crag's wild crest of copse and yew 
On Greta's breast dark shadows threw ; 
Shadows that met or shunn'd the sight, 
With every change of fitful light ; 
As hope and fear alternate chase 
Our course through life's uncertain race. 



Gliding by crag and copsewood green, 
A solitary form was seen 
To trace with stealthy pace the wold, 
Like fox that seeks the midnight fold, 
And pauses oft, and cowers dismay'd, 
At every breath that stirs the shade. 
He passes now the ivy bush, — 
The owl has seen him, and is hush ; 
He passes now the dodder'd oak, — 
He heard the startled raven croak ; 
Lower and lower he descends, 
Rustle the leaves, the brushwood bends ; 
The otter hears him tread the shore, 
And dives, and is beheld no more; 
And by the cliff of pale gray stone 
The midnight wanderer stands alone. 
Methinks that by the moon we trace 
A well-remember'd form and face ! 
That stripling shape, that cheek so pale, 
Combine to tell a rueful tale, 



Of powers misused, of passion's force, 
Of guilt, of grief, and of remorse ! 
'Tis Edmund's eye, at every sound 
That flings that guilty glance around ; 
'Tis Edmund's trembling haste divides 
The brushwood that the cavern hides ; 
And, when its narrow porch lies bare, 
'Tis Edmund's form that enters there. 



His flint and steel have sparkled bright, 
A lamp hath lent the cavern light. 
Fearful and quick his eye surveys 
Each angle of the gloomy maze. 
Since last he left that stern abode, 
It seem'd as none its floor had trode ; 
Un touch' d appear'd the various spoil, 
The purchase of his comrades' toil ; 
Masks and disguises grim'd with mud, 
Arms broken and defiled with blood, 
And all the nameless tools that aid 
Night-felons in their lawless trade, 
Upon the gloomy walls were hung, 
Or lay in nooks obscurely flung. 
Still on the sordid board appear 
The relics of the noontide cheer ; 
Flagons and emptied flasks were there, 
And bench o'erthrown, and shatter'd chair ; 
And all around the semblance show'd, 
As when the final revel glow'd, 
When the red sun was setting fast, 
And parting pledge Guy Denzil past. 
"To Rokeby treasure-vaults!" they 

quaff'd, 
And shouted loud and wildly laugh'd, 
Pour'd maddening from the rocky door, 
And parted — to return no more ! 
They found in Rokeby vaults their 

doom, — 
A bloody death, a burning tomb ! 



There his own peasant dress he spies, 

Doff d to assume that quaint disguise ; 

And, shuddering, thought upon his glee, 

When prank'd in garb of minstrelsy. 

" O, be the fatal art accurst," 

He cried, "that moved my folly first; 

Till, bribed by bandit's base applause, 

I burst through God's and Nature's laws! 

Three summer days are scantly past 

Since I have trod this cavern last, 

A thoughtless wretch, and prompt to err — 

But, O, as yet no murderer ! 

Even now I list my comrades' cheer, 

That general laugh is in mine ear, 



222 



SCOTT'S P02T/CAL WORK'S. 



Which raised my pulse and steel'd my 

heart, 
As I rehearsed my treacherous part — 

And would that all since then could seem 

The phantom of a fever's dream ! 

Hut fatal Memory notes too well 

The horrors of the dying yell 

From my despairing mates that broke, 

When flash'd the fire and roll'd the smoke ; 

When .lie avengers shouting came, 

And hemm'd us 'twixt the sword and 

flame ! 
My frantic flight, — the lifted brand, — 

That angel's interposing hand? 

If, for my life from slaughter freed, 
I vet could pay some grateful meed ! 
Perchance this object of my quest 
May aid" — he turn'd, nor spoke the rest. 

vr. 

Due northward from the rugged hearth, 

With paces five he metes the earth, 

Then toil'd with mattock to explore 

The entrails of the cabin floor, 

Nor paused till, deep beneath the ground, 

His search a small steel casket found. 

Just as he stoop'd to loose its hasp, 

His shoulder felt a giant grasp ; 

He started, and look'd up aghast, 

Then shriek'd!— 'Twas Bertram held him 

fast. 
" Fear not ! " he said ; but who could hear 
That deep stem voice, and cease to fear. 
"Fear not!— By Heaven, he shakes as 

much 
As partridge in the falcon's clutch : "— 
He raised him, and unloosed his hold, 
While from the opening casket roll'd 
A chain and reliquaire of gold. 
Bertram beheld it with surprise, 
Gazed on its fashion and device, 
Then, cheering Edmund as he could, 
Somewhat he smooth'd his rugged mood : 
For still the youth's half-lifted eye 
Quiver' d with terror's agony, 
And sidelong glanced, as to explore, 
In meditated flight, the door. 
"Sit," Bertram said, "from danger free : 
Thou canst not, and thou shalt not, flee. 
Chance brings me hither ; hill and plain 
I've sought for refuge-place in vain. 
And tell me now, thou aguish boy, 
What makest thou here? what means 

this toy ? 
Denzil and thou, I mark'd, were ta'en ; 
• What lucky chance unbound your chain ? 



I deem'd, long since on Baud's tower, 
Your heads were warp'd with sun and 

shower. 
Tell me the whole— and, mark ! nought e'er 
Chafes me like falsehood, or like fear." 
Gathering his courage to his aid, 
But trembling still, the youth obey'd. 

vir. 
*' Denzil and I two nights pass'd o'er 
In fetters on the dungeon floor. 
A guest the third sad morrow brought ■ 
Our hold dark Oswald Wycliffe sought, 
And eyed my comrade long askance, 
With fix'd and penetrating glance. 
'Guy Denzil art thou call'd?'— 'The 

same.' — 
' At Court who served wild Buckinghame ; 
Thence banish'd, won a keeper's place, 
So Villiers will'd, in Marwood-chase ; 
That lost — I need not tell thee why— 
Thou madest thy wit thy wants supply, 
Then fought for Rokeby : — Have I guess'd 
My prisoner right?' — 'At thy behest.' — 
He paused a while, and then went on 
With low and confidential tone ; — 
Me, as I judge, not then he saw, 
Close nestled in my couch of straw. — 
' List to me, Guy. Thou know'st the great 
Have frequent need of what they hate ; 
Hence, in their favour oft we see. 
Unscrupled, useful men like thee. 
Were I disposed to bid thee live," 
What pledge of faith hast thou to give? 

VIII. 

"The ready Fiend, who never yet 
Hath failed to sharpen Denzil's wit, 
Prompted his lie — ' His only child 
Should rest his pledge.' — The Baron 

smiled, 
And turn'd to me — ' Thou art his son? ' 
I bow'd — our fetters were undone, 
And we were led to hear apart 
A dreadful lesson of his art. 
Wilfrid, he said, his heir and son, 
Had fair Matilda's favour won ; 
And long since had their union been, 
But for her father's bigot spleen, 
Whose brute and blindfold party-rage 
Would, force per force, her hand engage 
To a base kern of Irish earth, 
Unknown his lineage and his birth, 
Save that a dying ruffian bore 
The infant brat to Rokeby door. 
Gentle restraint, he said, would lead 
Old Rokeby to enlarge his creed ; 



ROKEBY. 



223 



But fair occasion he must find 
For such restraint well-meant and kind, 
The Knight being render'd to his charge 
But as a prisoner at large. 

IX. 
" He school' d us in a well-forged tale, 
Of scheme the Castle walls to scale, 
To which was leagued each Cavalier 
That dwells upon the Tyne and Wear ; ' 
That Rokeby, his parole forgot, 
Had dealt with us to aid the plot. 
Such was the charge, which Denzil's zeal 
Of hate to Rokeby and O'Neale 
Proffer'd as witness, to make good, 
Even though the forfeit were their blood. 
I scrupled, until o'er and o'er 
His prisoners' safety Wycliffe swore ; 
And then — alas ! what needs there more ? 
I knew I should not live to say 
The proffer I refused that day ; 
Ashamed to live, yet loth to die, 
I soil'd me with their infamy ! " 
"Poor youth," said Bertram, "wavering 

still, 
Unfit alike for good or ill ! 
But what fell next?" — " Soon as at large 
Was scroll' d and sign'd our fatal charge, 
There never yet, on tragic stage, 
Was seen so well a painted rage 
As Oswald's show'd ! With loud alarm 
He call'd his garrison to arm ; 
From tower to tower, from post to'post, 
He hurried as if all were lost ; 
Consign'd to dungeon and to chain 
The good old Knight and all his train ; 
Warn'd each suspected Cavalier, 
Within his limits, to appear 
To-morrow, at the hour of noon, 
In the high church at Egliston."— 



" Of Egliston ! — Even now I pass'd," 
Said Bertram, " as the night closed fast ; 
Torches and cressets gleam'd around, 
I heard the saw and hammer sound, 
And I could mark they toil'd to raise 
A scaffold, hung with sable baize, 
Which the grim headsman's scene dis- 

play'd, 
Block, axe, and sawdust ready laid. 
Some evil deed will there be done, 
Unless Matilda wed his son ; — 
She loves him not — 'tis shrewdly guess'd 
That Redmond rules the damsel's breast. 
This is a turn of Oswald's skill ; 
But I may meet, and foil him still ! 



How earnest thou to thy freedom?"— 

"There 
Lies mystery more dark and rare. 
In midst of Wycliffe's well-feign'd rage, 
A scroll was offer' d by a page, 
Who told, a muffled horseman late 
Had left it at the Castle-gate. 
He broke the seal — his cheek show'd 

change, 
Sudden, portentous, wild, and strange ; 
The mimic passion of his eye 
Was turn'd to actual agony ; 
His hand like summer sapling'shook, 
Terror and guilt were in his look. 
Denzil he judged, in time of need, 
Fit counsellor for evil deed ; 
And thus apart his counsel broke, 
While with a ghastly smile he spoke :— 

XI. 

" ' As in the pageants of the stage, 
The dead awake in this wild age, 
Mortham — whom all men deem'd decreed 
In his own deadly snare to bleed, 
Slain by a bravo, whom, o'er sea, 
He train'd to aid in murdering me, — 
Mortham has 'scaped ! The coward shot 
The steed, but harm'd the rider not.' " 
Here, with an execration fell, 
Bertram leap'd up, and paced the cell : — 
" Thine own gray head, or bosom dark," 
He mutter'd, "may be surer mark ! " 
Then sat, and sign'd to Edmund, pale 
With terror, to resume his tale. 
"Wycliffe went on: — 'Mark with what 

flights 
Of wilder' d reverie he writes : — 

THE LETTER. 

• ' ' Ruler of Mortham's destiny ! 
Though dead, thy victim lives to thee. 
Once had he all that binds to life, 
A lovely child, a lovelier wife ; 
Wealth, fame, and friendship, were his 

own — 
Thou gavest the word, and they are flown. 
Mark how he pays thee : — To thy hand 
He yields his honours and his land, 
One boon premised ; — Restore his child ! 
And, from his native land exiled, 
Mortham no more returns to claim 
His lands, his honours, or his name ; 
Refuse him this, and from the slain 
Thou shalt see Mortham rise again.' — 

XII. 

' ' This billet while' the Baron read, 
His faltering accents show'd his dread , 



2 2-1 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He press'd his forehead with his palm, 
Then took a scornful tone and calm ; 
' Wild as the winds, as billows wild ! 
What wot I of his spouse or child ? 
Hither he brought a joyous dame, 
Unknown her lineage or her name : 
Her, in some frantic fit, he slew ; 
The nurse and child in fear withdrew. 
Heaven be my witness! wist I where 
To find this youth, my kinsman's heir, — 
L'nguerdon'd, I would give with joy 
The father's arms to fold his boy, 
And Mortham's lands and towers resign 
To the just heirs of Mortham's line.' — 
Thou know'st that scarcely e'en his fear 
Suppresses Denzil's cynic sneer ; — 
' Then happy is thy vassal's part,' 
He said, ' to ease his patron's heart ! 
In thine own jailer's watchful care 
Lies Mortham's just and rightful heir ; 
Thy generous wish is fully won, — 
Redmond O'Neale is Mortham's son.' — 

XIII. 

" Up starting with a frenzied look, 
His clenched hand the Baron shook : 
' Is Hell at work ? or dost thou rave, 
Or darest thou palter with me, slave? 
Perchance thou wot'st not, Barnard's 

towers 
Have racks, of strange and ghastly powers.' 
Denzil, who well his safety knew, 
Firmly rejoin'd, ' I tell thee true. 
Thy racks could give thee but to know 
The proofs, which I, untortured, show. — 
It chanced upon a winter night, 
When early snow made Stanmore white, 
That very night, when first of all 
Redmond O'Neale saw Rokeby hall, 
It was my goodly lot to gain 
A reliquary and a chain, 
Twisted and chased of massive gold. 
— Demand not how the prize I hold ! 
It was not given, nor lent, nor sold. — 
Gilt tablets to the chain were hung, 
With letters in the Irish tongue. 
I hid my spoil, for there was need 
That I should leave the land with speed ; 
Nor then I deem'd it safe to bear 
On mine own person gems so rare. 
Small heed I of the tablets took, 
But since have spell'd them by the book, 
When some sojourn in Erin's land 
Of their wild speech had given command, 
But darkling was the sense ; the phrase 
And language those of other days, 



Involved of purpose, as to foil 

An interloper's prying toil. 

The words, but not the sense, I knew, 

Till fortune gave the guiding clue. 



' ' ' Three days since, was that clue reveal'd, 

In Thorsgill as I lay conceal'd, 

And heard at full when Rokeby's Maid 

Her uncle's history display'd ; 

And now I can interpret well 

Each syllable the tablets tell. 

Mark, then : Fair Edith was the joy 

Of old O'Neale of Clandeboy ; 

But from her sire and country fled, 

In secret Mortham's Lord to wed. 

O'Neale, his first resentment o'er, 

Despatched his son to Greta's shore, 

Enjoining he should make him known 

(Until his farther will were shown) 

To Edith, but to her alone. 

What of their ill-starr'd meeting fell, 

Lord Wycliffe knows, and none so well. 

xv. 
"O'Neale it was, who, in despair, 
Robb'fi Mortham of his infant heir ; 
He bred him in their nurture wild, 
And call'd him murder'd Connel's child. 
Soon died the nurse ; the Clan believed 
What from their Chieftain they received. 
His purpose was, that ne'er again 
The boy should cross the Irish main ; 
But, like his mountain sires, enjoy 
The woods and wastes of Clandeboy. 
Then on the land wild troubles came, 
And stronger Chieftains urged a claim, 
And wrested from the old man's hands 
His native towers, his father's lands. 
Unable then, amid the strife, 
To guard young Redmond's rights or life, 
Late and reluctant he restores 
The infant to his native shores, 
With goodly gifts and letters stored, 
With many a deep conjuring word, 
To Mortham and to Rokeby's Lord. 
Nought knew the clod of Irish earth, 
Who was the guide, of Redmond's birth ; 
But deem'd his Chief scommandswere laid 
On both, by both to be obey'd. 
How he was wounded by the way, 
I need not, and I list not say.' — 



" ' A wondrous tale ! and, grant it true, 
What,' Wycliffe answer'd, 'might I do? 
Heaven knows, as willingly as now 
I raise the bonnet from my brow, 




Bertram suspends his purpose stern, 
And crouches in the brake and fern. 



Rokeby. 



ROKEBY. 



225 



Would I my kinsman's manors fair 
Restore to Mortham, or his heir; 
But Mortham is distraught— O'Neale 
Has drawn for tyranny his steel, 
Malignant to our rightful cause, 
And train'd in Rome's delusive laws. 
Hark thee apart ! '—They whisper'd long, 
Till Denzil's voice grew* bold and strong ;— 
' My proofs ! 1 never will,' he said, 
' Show mortal man where they are laid. 
Nor hope discovery to foreclose, 
By giving me to feed the crows ; 
For I have mates at large, who know 
Where I am wont such toys to stow. 
Free me from peril and from band, 
These tablets are at thy command : 
Nor were it hard to form some train, 
To wile old Mortham o'er the main. 
Then, lunatic's nor papist's hand 
Should wrest from thine the goodly land.' — 
— ' I like thy wit,' said Wycliffe, ' well ; 
But here in hostage shalt thou dwell. 
Thy son, unless my purpose err, ; 
May prove the trustier messenger. 
A scroll to Mortham shall he bear 
From me, and fetch these tokens rare. 
Gold shalt thou have, and that good store, 
And freedom, his commission o'er; 
But if his faith should chance to fail, 
The gibbet frees thee from the jail.' — 

xvir. 

" Mesh'd in the net himself had twined, 
What subterfuge could Denzil find? 
He told me, with reluctant sigh, 
That hidden here the tokens lie ; 
Conjured my swift return and aid, 
By all he scoff d and disobey'd, 
And look'd as if the noose were tied, 
And I the priest who left his side. 
This scroll for Mortham Wycliffe gave, 
Whom I must seek by Greta's wave ; 
Or in the hut where chief he hides, 
Where Thorsgill's forester resides. 
(Then chanced it, wandering in the glade, 
That he descried our ambuscade.) 
I was dismiss'd as evening fell, 
And reach'd but now this rocky cell." — 
"Give Oswald's letter." — Bertram read, 
And tore it fiercely shred by shred : — 
" All lies and villany ! to blind 
His noble kinsman's generous mind, 
And train him on from day to day, 
Till he can take his life away. — 
And now, declare thy purpose, youth, 
Nor dare to answer, save the truth ; 



If aught I mark of Denzil's art, 

I'll tear the secret from thy heart !"— 

XVIII. 

" It needs not. I renounce," he said, 
" My tutor and his deadly trade. 
Fix'd was my purpose to declare 
To Mortham, Redmond is his heir; 
To tell him in what risk he stands, 
And yield theso tokens to his hands. 
Fix'd was my purpose to atone, 
Far as I may, the evil done ; 
And fix'd it rests— if I survive 
This night, and leave this cave alive." 
"And Denzil?" — " Let them ply the rack 
Even till his joints and sinews crack! 
If Oswald tear him limb from limb, 
What ruth can Denzil claim from him, 
Whose thoughtless youth he led astray, 
And damn'd to this unhallow'd way? 
He school'd me faith and vows were vain ; 
Now let my master reap his gain." — 
' ' True, ' ' answer'd Bertram, ' ' 'tis his meed ; 
There's retribution in the deed. ! 
But thou— thou art not for our course, 
Hast fear, hast pity, hast remorse : 
And he with us the gale who braves, 
Must heave such cargo to the waves, 
Or lag with overloaded prore, 
While barks unburden' d reach the shore." 



He paused, and, stretching him at length, 
Seem'd to repose his bulky strength. 
Communing with his secret mind, 
As half he sat, and half reclined, 
One ample hand his forehead press'd, 
And one was dropp'd across his breast. 
The shaggy eyebrows deeper came 
Above his eyes of swarthy flame ; 
His lip of pride a while forbore 
The haughty curve till then it wore ; 
The unalter'd fierceness of his look 
A shade of darken'd sadness took, — 
For dark and sad a presage press'd, 
Resistlessly on Bertram's breast, — 
And when he spoke, his w-onted tone, 
So fierce, abrupt, and brief was gone. 
His voice was steady, low, and deep, 
Like distant waves, when breezes sleep ; 
And sorrow mix'd with Edmund's fear, 
Its low unbroken depth to hear. 

xx. 
" Edmund, in thy sad tale I find 
The woe that warp'd my patron's mind • 
'Twould wake the fountains of the eye 
In other men, but mine are dry. 

15 



22$ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Mortham must never see trie fool, 
That sold himself base Wycliffe's tool; 
Yet less from thirst of sordid gain, 
Than to avenge supposed disdain. 
Say, Bertram rues his fault; — a word, 
Till now, from Bertram never heard : 
S.iy, too, that Mortham's Lord he prays 
To' think but on their former days ; 
On Quariana's beach and rock, 
On Cayo's bursting battle-shock, 
On Darien's sands and deadly dew, 
And on the dart Tlatzeca threw ; — 
Perchance my patron yet may hear 
More that may grace his comrade's bier. 
My soul hath felt a secret weight, 
A warning of approaching fate ; 
As priest had said, ' Return, repent ! ' 
As well to bid that rock be rent. 
Firm as that flint I face mine end ; 
My heart may burst, but cannot bend. 

XXI. 

"The dawning of my youth, with awe 
And prophecy, the Dalesmen saw ; 
For over Redesdale it came, 
As bodeful as their beacon-flame. 
Edmund, thy years were scarcely mine, 
When, challenging the Clans of Tyne, 
To bring their best my brand to prove, 
O'er Hexham's altar hung my glove ; 55 
But Tynedale, nor in tower nor town, 
Held champion meet to take it down. 
My noontide, India may declare ; 
Like her fierce sun, I fired the air! 
Like him, to wood and cave bade fly 
Her natives, from mine angry eye. 
Panama's maids shall long look pale 
When Risingham inspires the tale ; 
Chili's dark matrons long shall tame 
The froward child with Bertram's name. 
And now, my race of terror run, 
Mine be the eve of tropic sun ! 
No pale gradations quench his ray, 
No twilight dews his wrath allay ; 
With disk like battle-target red, 
He rushes to his burning bed, 
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light, 
Then sinks at once — and all is night. — 

xxi r. 
" Now to thy mission, Edmund. Fly, 
Seek Mortham out, and bid him hie 
To Richmond, where his troops are laid, 
And lead his force to Redmond's aid. 
Say, till he reaches Egliston, 
A friend will watch to guard his son. 
Now, fare-thee-well ; for night draws on, 
And I would rest me here alone." 



Despite his ill-dissembled fear, 

There swam in Edmund's eye a tear ; 

A tribute to the courage high, 

Which stoop'd not in extremity, 

But strove, irregularly great, 

To triumph o'er approaching fate ! 

Bertram beheld the dewdrop start, 

It almost touch" d his iron heart: — 

" I did not think there lived," he said, 

' ' One, who would tear for Bertram shed." 

He loosen'd then his baldric's hold, 

A buckle broad of massive gold ; — 

" Of all the spoil that paid his pains, 

But this with Risingham remains ; 

And this, dear Edmund, thou shalt take, 

And wear it long for Bertram's sake. 

Once more — to Mortham speed amain ; 

Farewell ! and turn thee not again." 

xxnr. 
The night has yielded to the morn, 
And far the hours of prime are worn. 
Oswald, who, since the dawn of day, 
Had cursed his messenger's delay, 
Impatient question'd now his train, 
" Was Denzil's son return'd again?" 
It chanced there answer'd of the crew, 
A menial, who young Edmund knew : 
" No son of Denzil this," — b,e said ; 
' ' A peasant boy from Winston glade, 
For song and minstrelsy renown' d, 
And knavish pranks, the hamlets round."— » 
"Not Denzil's son! — From Winston 

vale ! — 
Then it was false, that specious tale : 
Or, worse— he hath despatch'd the youth 
To show to Mortham's Lord its truth. 
Fool that I was ! — but 'tis too late : — 
This is the very turn of fate ! — 
The tale, or true or false, relies 
On Denzil's evidence ! — He dies ! 
Ho ! Provost Marshal ! instantly 
Lead Denzil to the gallows-tree ! 
Allow him not a parting word ; 
Short be the shrift, and sure the cord ! 
Then let his gory head appal 
Marauders from the Castle-wall. 
Lead forth thy guard, that duty done, 
With best despatch to Egliston. — 
—Basil, tell Wilfrid he must straight 
Attend me at the Castle-gate." 

XXIV. 

"Alas !" the old domestic said, 
And shook his venerable head, 
"Alas, my lord ! full ill to-day 
May my young master brook the way ! 



— , 



ROKEBY. 



227 



The leech has spoke with grave alarm, 

Of unseen hurt, of secret harm, 

Of sorrow lurking at the heart, 

That mars and lets his healing art." — 

"Tush, tell not me ! — Romantic boys 

Pine themselves sick for airy toys, 

I will fina cure for Wilfrid soon ; 

Bid him for Egliston be boune, 

And quick ! — I hear the dull death-drum 

Tell Denzil's hour of fate is come." 

He paused with scornful smile, and then 

Resumed his train of thought agen. 

" Now comes my fortune's crisis near ! 

Entreaty boots not — instant fear, 

Nought else, can bend Matilda's pride, 

Or win her to be Wilfrid's bride. 

But when she sees the scaffold placed, 

With axe and block and headsman graced, 

And when she deems, that to deny 

Dooms Redmond and her sire to die, 

She must give way. — Then, were the line 

Of Rokeby once combined with mine, 

I gain the weather-gage of fate ! 

If Mortham come, he comes too late, 

While I, allied thus and prepared, 

Bid him defiance to his beard. — 

— If she prove stubborn, shall I dare 

To drop the axe ! — Soft ! pause we 

there. 
Mortham still lives— yon youth may tell 
His tale— and Fairfax loves him well ; — 
Else, wherefore should I now delay 
To sweep this Redmond from my way ? 
But she to piety perforce 
Must yield. — Without there ! Sound to 

horse." 



'Twas bustle in the court below, — 
"Mount, and march forward!" — Forth 

they go ; 
Steeds neigh and trample all around, 
Steel rings, spears glimmer, trumpets 

sound. — 
Just then was sung his parting hymn ; 
And Denzil turn'd his eyeballs dim, 
And, scarcely conscious what he sees, 
Follows the horsemen down the Tees ; 
And scarcely conscious what he hears, 
The trumpets tingle in his ears. 
O'er the long bridge they're sweeping 

now, 
The van is hid by greenwood bough ; 
But ere the rearward had passed o'er, 
Guy Denzil heard and saw no more ! 
One stroke, upon the Castle bell, 
To Oswald rung his dying knell. 



xxvr. 
O, for that pencil, erst profuse 
Of chivalry's emblazon'd hues, 
That traced of old, in Woodstock bower, 
The pageant of the Leaf and Flower, 
And bodied forth the tourney high, 
Held for the hand of Emily ! 
Then might I paint the tumult loud, 
That to the crowded abbey flow'd, 
And pour'd, as with an ocean's sound, 
Into the church's ample bound ! 
Then might. I show each varying mien, 
Exulting, woeful, or serene ; 
Indifference, with his idiot stare, 
And Sympathy, with anxious air; 
Paint the dejected Cavalier, 
Doubtful, disarm'd, and sad of cheer ; 
And his proud foe, whose formal eye 
Claim'd conquest now and mastery ; 
And the brute crowd, whose envious zeal 
Huzzas each turn of Fortune's wheel, 
And loudest shouts when lowest lie 
Exalted worth and station high. 
Yet what may such a wish avail ? 
'Tis mine to tell an onward tale, 
Hurrying, as best I can, along, 
The hearers and the hasty song ; — 
Like traveller when approaching home, 
Who sees the shades of evening come, 
And must not now his course delay, 
Or choose the fair, but winding way ; 
Nay, scarcely may his pace suspend, 
Where o'er his head the wildings bend, 
To bless the breeze that cools his brow, 
Or snatch a blossom from the bough. 

xxvi r. 
The reverend pile lay wild and waste, 
Profaned, dishonour'd, and defaced. 
Through storied lattices no more 
In soften'd light the sunbeams pour, 
Gilding the Gothic sculpture rich 
Of shrine, and monument, and niche. 
The Civil fury of the time 
Made sport of sacrilegious crime ; 
For dark Fanaticism rent 
Altar, and screen, and ornament, 
And peasant hands the tombs o'erthrew 
Of Bowes, of Rokeby, and Fitz-Hugh. 
And now was seen, unwonted sight, 
In holy walls a scaffold dight ; 
Where once the priest, of grace divine, 
Dealt to his flock the mystic sign, 
There stood the block display'd, and there 
The headsman grim his hatchet bare ; 
And for the word of Hope and Faith, 
Resounded loud a doom of death. 



228 



scorrs poetical ivoxks. 



Thrice the fierce trumpet's breath was 

heard, 
And cclio'd thrice the herald's word, 
Dooming, for breach of martial laws, 
And treason to the Commons' cause, 
The Knight of Rokeby and O'Neale 
To stoop their heads to block and steel. 
The trumpets flourish'd high and shrill, 
Then was a silence dead and still ; 
And silent prayers to heaven were cast, 
And stifled sobs were bursting fast, 
Till from the crowd begun to rise 
Murmurs of sorrow or surprise, 
And from the distant aisles there came 
Deep-muttcr'd threats, with Wycliffe's 

name. 

XXVIII. 

But Oswald, guarded by his band, 
Powerful in evil, waved his hand, 
And bade Sedition's voice be dead, 
On peril of the murmurer's head. 
Then first his glance sought Rokeby's 

Knight ; 
Who gazed on the tremendous sight, 
As calm as if he came a guest 
To kindred Baron's feudal feast, 
As calm as if that trumpet-call 
Were summons to the banner'd hall ; 
Firm in his loyalty he stood, 
And prompt to seal it with his blood. 
With downcast look drew Oswald nigh, — 
He durst not cope with Rokeby's eye ! — 
And said, with low and faltering breath, 
' ' Thou know'st the terms of life and 

death .' ' 
The Knight then turn'd, and sternly 

smiled ; 
" The maiden is mine only child, 
Yet shall my blessing leave her head, 
If with a traitor's son she wed." 
Then Redmond spoke : "The life of one 
Might thy malignity atone, 
On me be flung a double guilt ! 
Spare Rokeby's blood, let mine be spilt!" 
Wycliffe had listen' d to his suit, 
But dread prevail'd, and he was mute. 

XXIX. 

And now he pours his choice of fear 

In secret on Matilda's ear ; 

"An union form'd with me and mine, 

Ensures the faith of Rokeby's line. 

Consent, and all this dread array, 

Like morning dream shall pass away ; 

Refuse, and, by my duty press'd, 

I give the word — thou know'st the rest." 



Matilda, still and motionless, 
With terror heard the dread address, 
Pale as the sheeted maid who dies 
To hopeless love a sacrifice ; 
Then wrung her hands in agony, 
And round her cast bewilder'd eye. 
Now on the scaffold glanced, and now 
On Wycliffe's unrelenting brow. 
She veil'd her face, and, with a voice 
Scarce audible, — " I make my choice! 
Spare but their lives ! — for aught beside, 
Let Wilfrid's doom my fate decide. 
He once was generous! " — As she spoke, 
Dark Wycliffe's joy in triumph broke : — 
" Wilfrid, where loiter'd ye so late? 
Why upon Basil rest thy weight ? — 
Art spell-bound by enchanter's wand? — 
Kneel, kneel, and take her yielded hand ; 
Thank her with raptures, simple boy ! 
Should tears and trembling speak thy 

joy?"— 
" O hush, my sire ! To prayer and tear 
Of mine thou hast refused thine ear; 
But now the awful hour draws on, 
When truth must speak in loftier tone." 

XXX. 

He took Matilda's hand : " Dear maid, 

Couldst thou so injure me," he said, 

"Of thy poor friend so basely deem, 

As blend with him this barbarous scheme? 

Alas ! my efforts, made in vain, 

Might well have saved this added pain. 

But now, bear witness earth and heaven, 

That ne'er was hope to mortal given, 

So twisted with the strings of life, 

As this— to call Matilda wife ! 

I bid it now for ever part, 

And with the effort bursts my heart! " 

His feeble frame was worn so low, 

With wounds, with watching, and with woe, 

That nature could no more sustain 

The agony of mental pain. 

He kneel'd — his lip her hand had press'd, — 

Just then he felt the stern arrest. 

Lower and lower sunk his head, — 

They raised him, — but the life was fled! 

Then, first alarm'd, his sire and train 

Tried every aid, but tried in vain. 

The soul, too soft its ills to bear, 

Had left our mortal hemisphere, 

And sought in better world the meed, 

To blameless life by Heaven decreed. 

XXXI. 

The wretched sire beheld, aghast, 
With Wilfrid all his projects past, 



~T 



ROKEBY. 



229 



All turn'd and centred on his son, 
On Wilfrid all— and he was gone. 
"And I am childless now," he said, 
"Childless, through that relentless maid! 
A lifetime's arts, in vain essay'd, 
Are bursting on their artist's head ! 
Here lies my Wilfrid dead — and there 
Comes hated Mortham for his heir, 
Eager to knit in happy band 
With Rokeby's heiress Redmond's hand. 
And shall their triumph soar o'er all 
The schemes deep-laid to work their fall ? 
No! — deeds, which prudence might not 

dare, 
Appal not vengeance and despair. 
The murd'ress weeps upon his bier — 
I'll change to real that feigned tear ! 
They all shall share destruction's shock ; — 
Ho! lead the captives to the block!" — 
But ill his Provost could divine 
His feelings, and forbore the sign. 
" Slave ! tq the block ! — or I, or they, 
Shall face the judgment-seat this day!" 



The outmost crowd have heard a sound, 
Like horse's hoof on harden'd ground : 
Nearer it came, and yet more near, — 
The very death' s-men paused to hear. 
'Tis in the churchyard now — the tread 
Hath waked the dwelling of the dead ! 
Fresh sod, and old sepulchral stone, 
Return the tramp in varied tone. 
All eyes upon the gateway hung, 
When through the Gothic arch there 

sprung 
A horseman arm'd, at headlong speed — 
Sable his cloak, his plume, his steed. 5 6 
Fire from the flinty floor was spurn'd, 
The vaults unwonted clang return'd ! — 
One instant's glance around he threw, 
From saddlebow his pistol drew. 
Grimly determined was his look ! 
His charger with the spurs he strook — 
All scatter'd backward as he came, 
For all knew Bertram Risingham ! 
Three bounds that noble courser gave ; 
The first has reach'd the central nave, 
The second clear'd the chancel wide, 
The third — he was at Wycliffe's side. 
Full levell'd at the Baron's head, 
Rung the report — the bullet sped — 
And to his long account, and last, 
Without a groan dark Oswald past ! 
All was so quick that it might seem 
A flash of lightning, or a dream. 



xxxur. 
While yet the smoke the deed conceals, 
Bertram his ready charger wheels ; 
But flounder'd on the pavement floor 
The steed, and down the rider bore, 
And, bursting in the headlong sway, 
The faithless saddle-girths gave way. 
'Twas while he toil'd him to be freed, 
And with the rein to raise the steed, 
That from amazement's iron trance 
All Wycliffe's soldiers waked at once. 
Sword, halbert, musket-butt, their blows 
Hail'd upon Bertram as he rose ; 
A score of pikes, with each a wound, 
Bore down and pinn'd him to the ground ; 
But still his struggling force he rears, 
'Gainst hacking brands and stabbing 

spears ; 
Thrice from assailants shook him free, 
Once gain'd his feet, and twice his knee. 
By tenfold odds oppress'd at length, 
Despite his struggles and his strength, 
He took a hundred mortal wounds, 
As mute as fox 'mongst mangling hounds ; 
And when he died, his parting groan 
Had more of laughter than of moan ! 
— They gazed, as when a lion dies, 
And hunters scarcely trust their eyes, 
But bend their weapons on the slain, 
Lest the grim king should rouse again ! 
Then blow and insult some renew'd, 
And from the trunk, the head had hew'd, 
But Basil's voice the deed forbade ; 
A mantle o'er the corse he laid : — 
" Fell as he was in act and mind, 
He left no bolder heart behind : 
Then give him, for a soldier meet, 
A soldier's cloak for winding-sheet." 

xxxiv. 

No more of death and dying pang, 
No more of trump and bugle clang, 
Though through the sounding woods there 

come 
Banner and bugle, trump and drum. 
Arm'd with such powers as well had freed 
Young Redmond at his utmost need, 
And back'd with such a band of horse, 
As might less ample powers enforce ; 
Possess'd ofevery proof and sign 
That gave an heir to Mortham's line, 
And yielded to* a father's arms 
An image of his Edith's charms, — 
Mortham is come, to hear and see 
Of this strange morn the history. 
What saw he? — not the church's floor, 
Cumber'dwith dead and stain'd with gore ; 



230 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S.^ 



What heard he? — not the clamorous 

crowd, 
That shout their graduations loud : 
Redmond he saw and heard alone, 
Qasp'd him, and sobb'd, " My son! my 

son ! " — 

xxxv. 
This chanced upon a summer morn, 
When yellow waved die heavy corn: 
Hut when brown August o'er the land 
Call'd forth the reaper's busy band, 
A gladsome sight die sylvan road 
From Egliston to Mortham show'd. 
A while the hardy rustic leaves 
The task to bind and pile the sheaves, 
And maids their sickles fling aside, 
To gaze on bridegroom and on bride, 



And childhood's wondering group draws 

near, 
And from the gleaner's hands the ear 
Drops, while she folds them for a prayer 
And bkssing on the lovely pair. 
'Twas then the Maid of Rokeby gave 
Her plighted troth to Redmond brave ; 
And Teesdale can remember yet 
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt, 
And, for their troubles, bade them prove 
A lengthen'd life of peace and love. 



Time and Tide had thus their sway, 
Yielding, like an April day, 
Smiling noon for sullen morrow, 
Years of joy for hours of sorrow ! 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN 

OR, 

THE VALE OF ST. JOHN. 

A LOVER'S TALE. 



PREFACE TO FIRST EDITION. 

In the Edinburgh Annual Register for the year 1809, Three Fragments were inserted, 
written in imitation of Living Poets. It must have been apparent, that by these prolusions, 
nothing burlesque, or disrespectful to the authors, was intended, but that they were offered to 
the public as serious, though certainly very imperfect, imitations of that style of composition, 
by which each of the writers is supposed to be distinguished. As these exercises attracted a 
greater degree of attention than the author anticipated, he has been induced to complete one of 
them, and present it as a separate publication. 

It is not in this place that an examination of the works of the master whom he has here 
adopted as his model, can, with propriety, be introduced ; since his general acquiescence in the 
favourable suffrage of the public must necessarily be inferred from the attempt he has now made. 
He is induced, by the nature of his subject, to offer a few remarks on what has been called 
romantic poetry ; the popularity of which has been revived in the present day, under the 
auspices, and by the unparalleled success, of one individual. 

The original purpose of poetry is either religious or historical, or, as must frequently happen, 
a mixture of both. To modern readers, the poems of Homer have many of the features of pure 
romance ; but in the estimation. of his contemporaries, they probably derived their chief value 
from their supposed historical authenticity. The same may be generally said of the poetry of 
all early ages. The marvels and miracles which the poet blends with his song, do not exceed in 
number or extravagance the figments of the historians of the same period of society ; and, 
indeed, the difference betwixt poetry and prose, as the vehicles of historical truth, is always of 
late introduction. Poets, under various denominations of Bards, Scalds, Chroniclers, and so 
forth, are the first historians of all nations. Their intention is to relate the events they have 
witnessed, or the traditions that have reached them ; and they clothe the relation in rhyme, 
merely as the means of rendering it more solemn in the narrative or more easily committed to 
memory. But as the poetical historian improves in the art of conveying information, the 
authenticity of his narrative unavoidably declines. He is tempted to dilate and dwell upon the 
events that are interesting to his imagination, and, conscious how indifferent his audience is to 
the naked truth of his poem, his history gradually becomes a romance. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 231 

k It is in this situation that those epics are found, which have been generally regarded the 
standards of poetry ; and it has happened somewhat strangely, that the moderns have pointed 
out as the characteristics and peculiar excellencies of narrative poetry, the very circumstances 
which the authors themselves adopted, only because their art involved the duties of the his- 
torian as well as the poet. It cannot be believed, for example, that Homer selected the siege 
of Troy as the most appropriate subject for poetry; his purpose was to write the early history 
of his country ; the event he has chosen, though not very fruitful in varied incident, nor per- 
fectly well adapted for poetry, was nevertheless combined with traditionary and genealogical 
anecdotes extremely interesting to those who were to listen to him ; and this he has adorned by 
the exertions of a genius, which, if it has been equalled, has certainly been never surpassed. It 
was not till comparatively a late period that the general accuracy of his narrative, or his purpose 
in composing it, was brought into question. Ao/c'ei 7rpo>T0; [6 Afa£ay6pas] {ko.66. ^rjeri $a./3ofJii/o? 
ej> 7ravTo6a;rij 'Ioropia) rqu 'Ojx^pov Tvolj}<ri.v a.-troj>riva<j6ai elvai. nepl dperTjs Kai StKatocrui^js. But 
whatever theories might be framed by speculative men, his work was of an historical, not of an 
allegorical nature. Ei/atmAAeTO /xem tqv MeVre<o /cat Sxrou e/cdcrTore ou^mcoito, ttolvtol to. em^JJpLa 
SiepoiTOLTO, /ecu tcrTopeW eirvvOdveTO' cIkos Se ju.ii/ t\v nal fxvrnxocrvua navTaiv ypa(j>e<r9cu. Instead of 
recommending the choice of a subject similar to that of Homer, it was to be expected that critics 
should have exhorted the poets of these latter days to adopt or invent a narrative in \tself more 
susceptible of poetical ornament, and to avail themselves of that advantage in order to com- 
pensate, in some degree, the inferiority of genius. The contrary course has been inculcated by 
almost all the writers upon the Epoj>ceia; with what success, the fate of Homer's numerous 
imitators may best show. The ultimum supplicium of criticism was inflicted on the author if he 
did not choose a subject which at once deprived him of all claim to originality, and placed him, 
if not in actual contest, at least in fatal comparison, with those giants in the land whom it was 
most his interest to avoid. The celebrated receipt for writing an epic poem, which appeared in 
The Guardian, was the first instance in which common sense was applied to this department of 
poetry ; and, indeed, if the question be considered on its own merits, we must be satisfied that 
narrative poetry, if strictly confined to the great occurrences of history, would be deprived of 
the individual interest which it is so well calculated to excite. 

Modern poets may therefore be pardoned in seeking simpler subjects of verse, more interest- 
ing in proportion to their simplicity. Two or three figures, well grouped, suit the artist better 
than a crowd, for whatever purpose assembled. For the same reason, a scene immediately pre- 
sented to the imagination, and directly brought home to the feelings, though involving the fate 
of but one or two persons, is more favourable for poetry than the political struggles and con- 
vulsions which influence the fate of kingdoms. The former are within the reach and compre- 
hension of all, and, if depicted with vigour, seldom fail to fix attention : The other, if more 
sublime, are more vague and distant, less capable of being distinctly understood, and infinitely 
less capable of exciting those sentiments which it is the very purpose of poetry to inspire. To 
generalize is always to destroy effect. We would, for example, be more interested in the fate of 
an individual soldier in combat, than in the grand event of a general action ; with the happiness 
of two lovers raised from misery and anxiety to peace and union, than with the successful 
exertions of a whole nation. From what causes this may originate, is a separate and obviously 
an immaterial consideration. Before ascribing this peculiarity to causes decidedly and odiously 
selfish, it is proper to recollect, that while men see only a limited space, and while their affec- 
tions and conduct are regulated, not by aspiring to an universal good, but by exerting their 
power of making themselves and others happy within the limited scale allotted to each individual, 
so long will individual history and individual virtue be the readier and more accessible road to 
general interest and attention ; and, perhaps, we may add, that it is the more useful, as well as 
the more accessible, inasmuch as it affords an example capable of being easily imitated. 

According to the author's idea of Romantic Poetry, as distinguished from Epic, the former 
comprehends a fictitious narrative, framed and combined at the pleasure of the writer ; begin- 
ning and ending as he may judge best: which neither exacts nor refuses the use of supernatural 
machinery; which is free from the technical rules of the Ej>ee ; and is subject only to those 
which good sense, good taste, and good morals, apply to every species of poetry without ex- 
ception.- The date may be in a remote age, or in the present ; the story may detail the ad- 
ventures of a prince or of a peasant. In a word, the author is absolute master of his country 
and its inhabitants, and everything is permitted to him, excepting to be heavy or prosaic, for 
which, free and unembarrassed as he is, he has no manner of apology. Those, it is probable, 
will be found the peculiarities of this species of composition; and before joining the outcry 
against the vitiated taste that fosters and encourages it, the justice and grounds of it ought to 
be made perfectly apparent. If the want of sieges, and battles, and great military evolutions, 
in our poetry, is complained of, let us reflect, that the campaigns and heroes of our days are 
perpetuated in a record that neither requires nor admits of the aid of fiction ; and if the com- 
plaint refers to the inferiority of our bards, let us pay a just tribute to their modesty, limiting 
them, as it does, to subjects which, however indifferently treated, have still the interest and 
charm of novelty, and which thus prevents them from adding insipidity to their other more in- 
superable defects. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



INTRODUCTION, 
i. 
Come, Lucy! while 'tis morning hour, 

The woodland brook we needs must pass ; 
So, ere the sun assume his power, 
We shelter in Our poplar bower, 4 

Where dew lies long upon the flower, 

Though vanish'd from the velvet grass. 
Curbing the stream, this stony ridge 
May serve us for a sylvan bridge ; 
For here compell'd to disunite, 

Round petty isles the runnels glide, 
And chafing off their puny spite, 
The shallow murmurers waste their might, 
Yielding to footstep free and light 
A dry-shod pass from side to side. 

11. 
Nay, why this hesitating pause ? 
And, Lucy, as thy step withdraws, 
Why sidelong eye the streamlet's brim ? 

Titania's foot without a slip, 
Like thine, though timid, light, and slim, 

From stone to stone might safely trip, 

Nor risk the glow-worm clasp to dip 
That binds her slipper's silken rim. 
Or trust thy lover's strength : nor fear 

That this same stalwart arm of mine, 
Which could yon oak's prone trunk uprear, 
Shall shrink beneath the burden dear 

Of form so slender, light, and fine — 
So, — now, the danger dared at last, 
Look back, and smile at perils past ! 



And now we reach the favourite glade, 

Paled in by copsewood, cliff, and stone, 
Where, never harsher sounds invade, 

To break affection's whispering tone, 
Than the deep breeze that waves the shade, 

Than the small brooklet's feeble moan. 
Come ! rest thee on thy wonted seat ; 

Moss'd is the stone, the turf is green, 
A place where lovers best may meet, 

Who would that not their love be seen. 
The boughs, that dim the summer sky, 
Shall hide us from each lurking spy, 



That fain would spread the invidious 
tale, 
How Lucy of the lofty eye, 
Noble in birth, in fortunes high, 
She for whom lords and barons sigh, 

Meets her poor Arthur in the dale. 

IV. 

How deep that blush! — how deep that 

sigh ! 
And why does Lucy shun mine eye? 
Is it because that crimson draws 
Its colour from some secret cause, 
Some hidden movement of the breast, 
She would not that her Arthur guess'd ! 
O ! quicker far is lover's ken 
Than the dull glance of common men, 
And, by strange sympathy, can spell 
The thoughts the loved one will not tell 1 
And mine, in Lucy's blush, saw met 
The hues of pleasure and regret ; ' 
Pride mingled in the sigh her voice, 
And shared with Love the crimson 
glow ; 
Well pleased that thou art Arthur's 
choice, 
Yet shamed thine own is placed so 
low : 
Thou turn'st thy self-confessing cheek, 

As if to meet the breeze's cooling ; 
Then, Lucy, hear thy tutor speak, 
For Love, too, has his hours of school- 
ing. 

v. 

Too oft my anxious eye has spied 
That secret grief thou fain wouldst hide, 
The passing pang of humbled pride ; 
Too oft, when through the splendid hall, 
The load-star of each heart and eye, 
My fair one leads the glittering ball, 
Will her stol'n glance on Arthur fall, 

With such a blush and such a sigh ! 
Thou would' st not yield, for wealth or 
rank, 
The heart thy worth and beauty won, 
Nor leave me on this mossy bank, 
To meet a rival on a throne : 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



233 



Why, then, should vain repinings rise, 

That to thy lover fate denies 

A nobler name, a wide domain, 

A Baron's birth, a menial train, 

Since Heaven assign'd him, for his part, 

A lyre, a falchion, and a heart ? 

■vi. 
My sword — its master must be dumb ; 

But, when a soldier names my name, 
Approach, my Lucy! fearless come, 

Nor dread to hear of Arthur's shame. 
My heart — 'mid all yon courtly crew, 

Of lordly rank and lofty line, 
Is there to love and honour true, 
That boasts a pulse so warm as mine? 
They praised thy diamonds' lustre rare — 
Match'd with thine eyes, I thought it 
faded ; 
They praised the pearls that bound thy 
hair — 
I only saw the locks they braided ; 
They talk'd of wealthy dower and land, 
And titles of high birth the token — ^ 
I thought of Lucy's heart and hand, . 
> Nor knew the sense of what was spoken. 
And yet, if rank'd in Fortune's roll, 

I might havelearn'd their choice unwise, 
Who rate the dower above the soul, 
And Lucy's diamonds o'er her eyes. 



My lyre — it is an idle toy, 
That borrows accents not its own, 

Like warbler of Colombian sky, 
That sings but in a mimic tone.* 

Ne'er did it sound o'er sainted well, 

Nor boasts it aught of Border spell ; 
Its strings no feudal slogan pour, 
Its heroes draw no broad claymore ; 
No shouting clans applauses raise, 
Because it sung their father's praise ; 
On Scottish moor, or English down, 
It ne'er was graced by fair renown ; 
Nor won, — bestmeed to minstrel true, — 
One favouring smile from fair Buc- 

CLEUCH ! 

By one poor streamlet sounds its tone, 
And heard by one dear maid alone. 

VIII. 

But, if thou bid'st, these tones shall tell 
Of errant knight, and damozelle ; 
Of the dread knot a Wizard tied, 
In punishment of maiden's pride, 



Tha Mocking Bird. 



In notes of marvel and of fear, 
That best may charm romantic ear. 
For Lucy loves,— like Collins, ill-starr'd 

name! 
Whose lay's requital was that tardy fame, 
Who bound no laurel round his living head, 
Should hang it o'er his monument when 

dead, — 
For Lucy loves to tread enchanted strand, 
And thread, like him, the maze of fairy 

land ; 
Of golden battlements to view the gleam, 
And slumber soft by some Elysian stream ; 
Such lays she loves, — and, such my Lucy's 

choice, 
What other song can claim her Poet's 

voice? 



CANTO FIRST. 



Where is the Maiden of mortal strain, 
That may match with the Baron of Trier- 
main? 1 
She must be lovely, and constant, and kind, 
Holy and pure, and humble of mind, 
Blithe of cheer, and gentle of mood, 
Courteous, and generous, and noble of 

blood — 
Lovely as the sun's first ray, 
When it breaks the clouds of an April day ; 
Constant and true as the widow'd dove, 
Kind as a minstrel that sings of love ; 
Pure as the fountain in rocky cave, 
Where never sunbeam kiss'd the wave ; 
Humble as maiden that loves in vain, 
Holy as hermit's vesper strain ; 
Gentle as breeze that but whispers and 

dies, 
Yet blithe as the light leaves that dance in 

its sighs ; 
Courteous as monarch the morn he is 

crown'd, 
Generous as spring-dews that bless the 

glad ground ; 
Noble her blood as the currents that met 
In the veins of the noblest Plantagenet — 
Such must her form be, her mood, and 

her strain, 
That shall match with Sir Roland of 

Triermain. 

ii. 
Sir Roland de Vaux he hath laid him to 

sleep, 
His blood it was fever'd, his breathing 

was deep. 



234 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



He had been pricking against the Scot, 
The foray was long, and the skirmish hot ; 
His dinted holm and his buckler's plight 
Bore token of a stubborn fight. 

All in the castle must hold them still, 
Harpers must hill him to his rest, 
With the slow soft tunes he loves the best, 
Till sleep sink down upon his breast, 

Like the dew on a summer hill. 



It was the dawn of an autumn day; 
The sun was struggling with frost-fog gray, 
That like a silvery cape was spread 
Round Skiddaw's dim and distant head, 
And faintly gleam' d each painted pane 
Of the lordly halls of Triermain, 

When that Baron bold awoke. 
Starting he woke, and loudly did call, 
Rousing his menials in bower and hall, 

While hastily he spoke. 



' ' Hearken , my minstrels ! Which of ye all 
Touch'd his harp with that dying fall, 

So sweet, so soft, so faint, 
It seem'd an angel's whisper' d call 

To an expiring saint? 
And hearken, my merry-men ! What time 
or where 
Did she pass, that maid with her 
heavenly brow, 
With her look so sweet and her eyes so fair, 
And her graceful step and her angel air, 
And the eagle plume in her dark-brown 
hair, 
That pass'd from my bower e'en 
now ? " 

v. 

Answer'd him Richard de Bretville ; he 
Was chief of the Baron's minstrelsy, — 
"Silent, noble chieftain, we 

Have sat since midnight close, 
When such lulling sounds as the brooklet 

sings, 
Murmur'd from our melting strings, 
And hush'd you to repose. 
Had a harp-note sounded here, 
It had caught my watchful ear, 
Although it fell as faint and shy 
As bashful maiden's half-form'd sigh, 
When she thinks her lover near." — 
Answer'd Philip of Fasthwaite tall, 
He kept guard in the outer-hall, — 
" Since at eve our watch took post, 
Not a foot has thy portal cross'd ; 



Else had I heard the steps, though low 
And light they fell, as when earth receives, 
In morn of frost, the wither'd leaves, 

That drop when no winds blow." — 

vr. 
-"Then come thou hither, Henry, my page, 
Whom I saved from the sack of Hermitage, 
When that dark castle, tower, and spire, 
Rose to the skies a pile of fire, 

And redden'd all the Nine-stane Hill, 
And the shrieks of death that wildly broke 
Through devouring flame and smothering 
smoke, 

Made the warrior's heart-blood chill. 
The trustiest thou of all my train, 
My fleetest courser thou must rein, 

And ride to Lyulph's tower, 
And from the Baron of Triermain 

Greet well that sage of power. 
He is sprung from Druid sires, 
And British bards that tuned their lyres 
To Arthur's and Pendragon's praise, 
And his who sleeps at Dunmailraise.* 
Gifted like his gifted race, 
He the characters can trace, 
Graven deep in elder time 
Upon Helvellyn's cliffs sublime ; 
Sign and sigil well doth he know, 
And can bode of weal and woe, 
Of kingdoms' fall and fate of wars, 
From mystic dreams and course of stars. 
He shall tell if middle earth 
To that enchanting shape gave birth, 
Or if 'twas but an airy thing, 
Such as fantastic slumbers bring, 
Framed from the rainbow's varying dyes, 
Or fading tints of western skies. 
For, by the blessed Rood I swear, 
If that fair form breathes vital air, 
No other maiden by my side 
Shall ever rest De Vaux's bride ! " 



The faithful Page he mounts his steed, 
And soon he cross'd green Irthing's mead, 
Dash'd o'er Kirkoswald's verdant plain, 
And Eden barr'd his course in vain. 
He pass'd red Penrith's Table Round, 2 
For feats of chivalry renown'd, 
Left May burgh's mound 3 and stones of 

power, 
By Druids raised in magic hour, 



* Dunmailraise is one of the grand passes 
from Cumberland into Westmoreland. There 
is a cairn on it said to be the monument of 
Dunmail, the last King of Cumberland. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



235 



And traced the Eamont's winding way, 
Till Ulfo's * lake beneath him lay. 



Onward he rode, the pathway still 
Winding betwixt the lake and hill ; 
j Till, on the fragment of a rock, 
1 Struck from its base by lightning shock, 

He saw the hoary Sage : 
' The silver moss and lichen twined, 
j With fern and deer-hair check'd and lined, 

A cushion fit for age ; 
I And o'er him shook the aspen-tree, 

A restless rustling canopy. 
I Then sprung young Henry from his selle, 

And greeted Lyulph grave, 
! And then his master's tale did tell, 

And then for counsel crave. 
! The Man of Years mused long and deep, 
j Of time's lost treasures taking keep, 
And then, as rousing from a sleep, 
His solemn answer gave. 

IX. 

"That maid is born of middle earth, 

And may of man be won, 
Though there have glided since her birth 

Five hundred years and one. 
But where's the Knight in all the north, 
That dare the adventure follow forth, 
So perilous to knightly worth, 

In the valley of St. John ? 
Listen, youth, to what I tell, 
And bind it on thy memory well ; 
Nor muse that I commence the rhyme 
Far distant 'mid the wrecks of time. 
The mystic tale, by bard and sage, 
Is handed down from Merlin's age. 



lyulph's tale. 
•'King Arthur has ridden from merry 
Carlisle 

When Pentecost was o'er : 
He journey'd like errant-knight the while, 
And sweetly the summer sun did smile 

On mountain, moss, and moor. 
Above his solitary track 
Rose Glaramara's ridgy back, 
Amid whose yawning gulfs the sun 
Cast umber' d radiance red and dun, 
Though never sunbeam could discern 
The surface of that sable tarn/ 
In whose black mirror you may spy 
The stars, while noontide lights the sky. 

* Ulswater. 



The gallant King he skirted still 
The margin of that mighty hill ; 
Rock upon rocks incumbent hung, 
And torrents, down the gullies flung, 
Join'd the rude river that brawl'd on, 
Recoiling now from crag and stone, 
Now diving deep from human ken, 
And raving down its darksome glen. 
The Monarch judged this desert wild, 
With such romantic ruin piled, 
Was theatre by Nature's hand 
For feat of high achievement plann'd. 

xr. 
' ' O rather he chose, that Monarch bold, 

On vent'rous quest to ride, 
In plate and mail, by wood and wold, 
Than, with ermine trapp'd and cloth of gold, 

In princely bower to bide ; 
The bursting crash of a foeman's spear 

As it shiver'd against his mail, 
Was merrier music to his ear 

Than courtier's whisper'd tale ; 
And the clash of Caliburn f more dear, 
When on the hostile casque it rung 
Than all the lays 
To their monarch's praise 
That the harpers of Reged sung. 
He loved better to rest by wood or river, 
Than in bower of his bride, Dame 

Guenever, 
For he left that lady, so lovely of cheer, 
To follow adventures of danger and fear ; 
And the frank-hearted Monarch full little 

did wot, 
That she smiled, in his absence, on brave 
Lancelot. 

XII. 

' ' He rode, till over down and dell 
The shade more broad and deeper fell ; 
And though around the mountain's head 
Flow'd streams of purple, and gold, and 

red, 
Dark at the base, unblest by beam, 
Frown'd the black rocks, and roar'd the 

stream. 
With toil the King his way pursued 
By lonely Threlkeld's waste and wood, 
Till on his course obliquely shone 
The narrow valley of Saint John, 
Down sloping to the western sky, 
Where lingering sunbeams love to lie. 
Right glad to feel those beams again, 
The King drew up his charger's rein ; 



t King Arthur's sword, called by Tennyson 
Excalibur. 



236 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



With gauntlet raised he screen'd his sight, 
As dazzled with the level light, 
And, from beneath his glove of mail, 
Scann'd at his ease the lovely vale, 
While 'gainst the sun his armour bright 
Gleam' d ruddy like the beacon's light. 



" Paled in by many a lofty hill, 
The narrow dale lay smooth and still, 
And, down its verdant bosom led, 
A winding brooklet found its bed. 
But, midmost of the vale, a mound 
Arose with airy turrets crown'd, 
Buttress, and rampire's circling bound, 

And mighty keep and tower ; 
Seem'd some primeval giant's hand 
The castle's massive walls had plann'd, 
A ponderous bulwark to withstand 

Ambitious Nimrod's power. 
Above the moated entrance slung, 
The balanced drawbridge trembling hung, 

As jealous of a foe ; 
Wicket of oak, as iron hard, 
With iron studded, clench'd, and barr'd, 
And prong'd portcullis, join'd to guard 

The gloomy pass below. 
But the gray walls no banners crown'd, 
Upon the watch-tower's airy round 
No warder stood his horn to sound, 
No guard beside the bridge was found, 
And where the Gothic gateway frown'd, 

Glanced neither bill nor bow. 



" Beneath the castle's gloomy pride 
In ample round did Arthur ride 
Three times ; nor living thing he spied, 

Nor heard a living sound, 
Save that, awakening from her dream, 
The owlet now began to scream, 
In concert with the rushing stream, 

That wash'd the battled mound. 
He lighted from his goodly steed, 
And he left him to graze on bank and 

mead ; 
And slowly he climb'd the narrow way, 
That reach'd the entrance grim and gray, 
And he stood the outward arch below, 
And his bugle-horn prepared to blow, 

In summons blithe and bold, 
Deeming to rouse from iron sleep 
The guardian of this dismal Keep, 

Which well he guess'd the hold 
Of wizard stern, or goblin grim, 
Or pagan of gigantic limb, 

The tyrant of the wold. 



"The ivory bugle's golden tip 

Twice touch'd the monarch's manly lip, 

And twice his hand withdrew. 
— Think not but Arthur's heart was good ! 
His shield was cross'd by the blessed rood, 
Had a pagan host before him stood, 

He had charged them through and 
through ; 
Yet the silence of that ancient place 
Sunk on his heart, and he paused a space 

Ere yet his horn he blew. 
But, instant as its 'larum rung, 
The castle gate was open flung, 
Portcullis rose with crashing groan 
Full harshly up its groove of stone ; 
The balance-beams obey'd the blast, 
And down the trembling drawbridge cast; 
The vaulted arch before him lay, 
With nought to bar the gloomy way, 
And onward Arthur paced, with hand 
On Caliburn's resistless brand. 

XVI. 

" A hundred torches, flashing bright, 
Dispell'd at once the gloomy night 

That lour'd along the walls, 
And show'd the King's astonish'd sight 

The inmates of the halls. 
Nor wizard stern, nor goblin grim, 
Nor giant huge of form and limb, 
Nor heathen knight, was there; 
But the cressets, which odours flung aloft, 
Show'd by their yellow light and soft, 

A band of damsels fair. 
Onward they came, like summer wave 

That dances to the shore ; 
An hundred voices welcome gave, 

And welcome o'er and o'er! 
An hundred lovely hands assail 
The bucklers of the monarch's mail, 
And busy labour 'd to unhasp 
Rivet of steel and iron clasp. 
One wrapp'd him in a mantle fair, 
And one flung odours on his hair ; 
His short curl' d ringlets one smooth'd down, 
One wreathed them with a myrfele crown. 
A bride upon her wedding-day, 
Was tended ne'er by troop so gay. 

XVII. 

' ' Loud laugh'd they all,— the King, in vain, 
With questions task'd the giddy train ; 
Let him entreat, or crave, or call, 
'Twas one reply — loud laugh'd they all. 
Then o'er him mimic chains they fling, 
Framed of the fairest flowers of spring. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



237 



While some their gentle force unite, 
Onward to drag the wondering knight, 
Some, bolder, urge his pace with blows, 
Dealt with the lily or the rose. 
Behind him were in triumph borne 
The warlike arms he late had worn. 
Four of the train combined to rear 
The terrors of Tintadgel's spear ; % 
Two, laughing at their lack of strength, 
Dragg'd Caliburn in cumbrous length ; 
One, while she aped a martial stride, 
Placed on her brows the helmet's pride ; 
Then scream'd, 'twixtlaughterand surprise, 
To feel its depth o'crwhelm her eyes. 
With revel-shout, and triumph-song, 
Thus gaily march'd the giddy throng. 

XVIII. 

"Through many a gallery and hall 
They led, I ween, their royal thrall ; 
At length, beneath a fair arcade 
Their march and song at once they staid. 
The eldest maiden of the band, 

(The lovely maid was scarce eighteen,) 
Raised, with imposing air her hand, 
And reverent silence did command, 

On entrance of their Queen, 
And they were mute. — But as a glance 
They steal on Arthur's countenance, 

Bewilder'd with surprise, 
Their smother'd mirth again 'gan speak, 
In archly dimpled chin and cheek, 

And laughter-lighted eyes. 



"The attributes of those high days 
Now only live in minstrel-lays ; 
For Nature, now exhausted, still' 
Was then profuse of good and ill. 
Strength was gigantic, valour high, 
And wisdom soar'd beyond the sky, 
And beauty had such matchless beam 
As lights not now a lover's dream. 
Yet e'en in that romantic age, 

Ne'er were such charms by mortal seen, 
As Arthur's dazzled eyes engage, 
When forth on that enchanted stage, 
With glittering train of maid and page, 

Advanced the castle's Queen ! 
While up the hall she slowly pass'd, 
Her dark eye on the King she cast, 

That flash'd expression strong ; 
The longer dwelt that lingering look, 
Her cheek the livelier colour took, 
And scarce the shame-faced King could 
brook 

The gaze that lasted long. 



A sage, who had that look espied, 
Where kindling passion strove with pride, 

Had whisper'd, ' Prince, beware ! 
From the chafed tiger rend the prey, 
Rush on the lion when at bay, 
Bar the fell dragon's blighted way, 

But shun that lovely snare ! ' — 



"At once that inward strife suppress'd, 
The dame approach' d her warlike guest, 
With greeting in that fair degree, 
Where female pride and courtesy 
Are blended with such passing art 
As awes at once and charms the heart. 
A courtly welcome first she gave, 
Then of his goodness 'gan to crave 

Construction fair and true 
Of her light maidens' idle mirth, 
Who drew from lonely glens their birth, 
Nor knew to pay to stranger worth 

And dignity their due ; 
And then she pray'd that he would rest 
That night her castle's honour'd guest. 
The Monarch meetly thanks express'd ; 
The banquet rose at her behest, 
With lay and tale, and laugh and jest, 

Apace the evening flew. 

XXI. 

"The Lady sate the Monarch by, 
Now in her turn abash'd and shy, 
And with indifference seem'd to hear 
The toys he whisper'd in her ear. 
Her bearing modest was and fair, 
Yet shadows of constraint were there, 
That show'd an over-cautious care 

Some inward thought to hide ; 
Oft did she pause in full reply, 
And oft cast down her large dark eye, 
Oft check'd the soft voluptuous sigh, 

That heaved her bosom's pride. 
Slight symptoms these, but shepherds know 
How hot the mid-day sun shall glow, 

From the mist of morning sky ; 
And so the wily Monarch guess' d, 
That this assumed restraint express'd 
More ardent passions in the breast, 

Than ventured to the eye. 
Closer he press'd, while beakers rang, 
While maidens laugh' d and minstrels sang, 

Still closer to her ear- 
But why pursue the common tale? 
Or wherefore show how knights prevail 

When ladies dare to hear? 
Or wherefore trace from what slight cause 
Its source one tyrant passion draws, 



233 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Till, mastering all within, 
Whore lives the man that has not tried, 
How mirth can into folly glide, 

And folly into sin?" 



CANTO SECOND, 
i. 

I.YULPH'S TALE, CONTINUED. 

" Another day, another day, 
And yet another glides away ! 
The Saxon stern, the pagan Dane, 
Maraud on Britain's shores again. 
Arthur, of Christendom the flower, 
Lies loitering in a lady's bower; 
The horn, that foemen wont to fear, 
Sounds but to wake the Cumbrian deer, 
And Caliburn, the British pride, 
Hangs useless by a lover's side. 



" Another day, another day, 

And yet another, glides away ! 

Heroic plans in pleasure drown'd, 

He thinks not of the Table Round ; 

In lawless love dissolved his life, 

He thinks not of his beauteous wife : 

Better he loves to snatch a flower 

From bosom of his paramour, 

Than from a Saxon knight to wrest 

The honours of his heathen crest ! 

Better to wreathe, 'mid tresses brown, 

The heron's plume her hawk struck down, 

Than o'er the altar give to flow 

The banners of a Paynim foe. 

Thus, week by week, and day by day, 

His life inglorious glides away : 

But she, that soothes his dream, witn fear 

Beholds his hour of waking near ! 



" Much force have mortal charms to stay 
Our peace in Virtue's toilsome way ; 
But Gwendolen's might far outshine 
Each maid of merely mortal line. 
Her mother was of human birth, 
Her sire a Genie of the earth, 
In days of old deem'd to preside 
O'er lovers' wiles and beauty's pride, 
By youths and virgins worshipp'd long, 
With festive dance and choral song, 
Till, when the cross to Britain came, 
On heathen altars died the flame. 
Now, deep in Wastdale solitude, 
The downfall of his rights he rued, 



And, born of his resentment heir, 
He train'd to guile that lady fair, 
To sink in slothful sin and shame 
The champions of the Christian name. 
Well skill'd to keep vain thoughts alive, 
And all to promise, nought to give, — 
The timid youth had hope in store, 
The bold and pressing gain'd no more. 
As wilder'd children leave their home, 
After the rainbow's arch to roam, 
Her lovers barter'd fair esteem, 
Faith, fame, and honour, for a dream. 

IV. 

' ' Her sire's soft arts the soul to tame 

She practised thus — till Arthur came ; 

Then, frail humanity had part, 

And all the mother claim'd her heart. 

Forgot each rule her father gave, 

Sunk from a princess to a slave, 

Too late must Guendolen deplore, 

He, that has all, can hope no more ! 

Now must she see her lover strain 

At every turn her feeble chain ; 

Watch, to new-bind each knot, and shrink 

To view each fast-decaying link. 

Art she invokes to Nature's aid, 

Her vest to zone, her locks to braid ; 

Each varied pleasure heard her call, 

The feast, the tourney, and the ball : 

Her storied lore she next applies, 

Taxing her mind to aid her eyes ; 

Now more than mortal wise, and then 

In female softness sunk again : 

Now, raptured, with each wish complying, 

With feign'd reluctance now denying ; 

Each charm she varied, to retain 

A varying heart— and all in vain ! 

V. 
"Thus in the garden's narrow bound, 
Flank'd by some castle's Gothic round, 
Fain would the artist's skill provide, 
The limits of his realms to hide. 
The walks in labyrinths he twines, 
Shade after shade with skill combines, 
With many a varied flowery knot, 
And copse, and arbour, decks the spot, 
Tempting the hasty foot to stay, 

And linger on the lovely way 

Vain art ! vain hope ! 'tis fruitless all! 
At length we reach the bounding wall, 
And, sick of flower and trim-dress'd tree, 
Long for rough glades and forest free. 

VI. 

1 ' Three summer months had scantly flown, 
When Arthur, in embarrass'd tone, 
Spoke of his liegemen and his throne ; 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAtti. 



2J9 



Said, all too long had been his stay, 
And duties, which a Monarch sway, 
Duties, unknown to humbler men, 
Must tear her knight from Guendolen.— 
She listen'd silently the while, 
Her mood express"d in bitter smile ; 
Beneath her eye must Arthur quail, 
And oft resume the unfinish'd tale, 
Confessing, by his downcast eye, 
The wrong he sought to justify. 
He ceased. A moment mute she gazed, 
And then her looks to heaven she raised ; 
One palm her temples veil'd, to hide 
The tear that sprung in spite of pride ! 
The other for an instant press'd 
The foldings of her silken vest ! 

VII. 

"At her reproachful sign and look, 

The hint the Monarch's conscience took. 

Eager he spoke — ' No, lady, no! 

Deem not of British Arthur so, 

Nor think he can deserter prove 

To the dear pledge of mutual love. 

I swear by sceptre and by sword, 

As belted knight and Britain's lord, 

That if a boy shall claim my care, 

That boy is born a kingdom's heir ; 

But, if a maiden Fate allows, 

To choose that maid a fitting spouse, 

A summer-day in lists shall strive 

My knights, — the bravest knights alive, — 

And he, the best and bravest tried, 

Shall Arthur's daughter claim for bride.'— 

He spoke, with voice resolved and high— 

The lady deign' d him not reply. 

VIII. 
"At dawn of morn, ere on the brake 
His matins did a warbler make, 
Or stirr'd his wing to brush away 
A single dew-drop from the spray, 
Ere yet a sunbeam through the mist 
The castle-battlements had kiss'd, 
The gates revolve, the drawbridge fails, 
And Arthur sallies from the walls. 
Doff 'd his soft garb of Persia's loom, 
And steel from spur to helmet-plume, 
His Libyan steed full proudly trode, 
And joyful neigh'd beneath his load. 
The Monarch gave a passing sigh 
To penitence and pleasures by, 
When, lo! to his astonish'd ken 
Appear'd the form of Guendolen. 

IX. 
"Beyond the outmost wall she stood, 
Attired like huntress of the wood : 



Sandall'd her feet, her ankles bare, 
And eagle-plumage deck'd her hair ; 
Finn was her look, her bearing bold, 
And in her hand a cup of gold. 
' Thou goest,' she said, ' and ne'er again 
Must we two meet, in joy or pain. 
Full fain would I this hour delay, 
Though weak the wish — yet, wilt thou 

stay ? 
—No! thou look'st forward. Still at- 
tend, — 
Part we like lover and like friend.' 
She raised the cup — ' Not this the juice 
The sluggish vines of earth produce ; 
Pledge we, at parting, in the draught 
Which Genii love ! ' — she said, and quaff d; 
And strange unwonted lustres fly 
From her flush'd cheek and sparkling eye. 



"The courteous Monarch bent him low, 
And, stooping down from saddlebow, 
Lifted the cup, in act to drink. 
A drop escaped the goblet's brink — 
Intense as liquid fire from hell, 
Upon the charger's neck it fell. 
Screaming with agony and fright, 
He bolted twenty feet upright — 
— The peasant still can show the dint, 
Where his hoofs lighted on the flint.— 
From Arthur's hand the goblet flew, 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew, 6 
That burn'd and blighted where it fell! 
The frantic steed rush'd up the dell, 
As whistles from the bow the reed ; 
Nor bit nor rein could check his speed, 

Until he gain'd the hill ; 
Then breath and sinew fail'd apace, 
And, reeling from the desperate race, 

He stood, exhausted, still. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed, 

Back on the fatal castle gazed 

Nor' tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening against the morning sky; 7 
But, on the spot where once they frown'd, 
The lonely streamlet brawl'd around 
A tufted knoll, where dimly shone 
Fragments of rocks and rifted stone. 
Musing on this strange hap the while, 
The king wends back to fair Carlisle : 
And cares, that cumber royal sway, 
Wore memory of the past away. 



"Full fifteen years, and more, were sped, 
Each brought new wreaths to Arthur's 
head. 



240 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought, 8 

The Saxons to subjection brought: 

Rython, the mighty giant, slain 

By his good brand, relieved Bretagne : 

The Pictish Gillamore in fight, 

And Roman Lucius own'd his might ; 

And wide were through the world re- 

nown'd 
The glories of his Table Round. 
Each knight who sought adventurous fame, 
To the bold court of Britain came, 
And all who suffer'd causeless wrong, 
From tyrant proud, or faitour strong, 
Sought Arthur's presence to complain, 
Nor there for aid implored in vain. 

XII. 
"For this the King, with pomp and pride, 
Held solemn court at Whitsuntide, 

And summon'd Prince and Peer, 
All who owed homage, for their land, 
Or who craved knighthood from his hand, 
Or who had succour to demand, 

To come from far and near. 
At such high tide were glee and game 
Mingled with feats of martial fame, 
For many a stranger champion came, 

In lists to break a spear ; 
And not a knight of Arthur's host, 
Save that he trode some foreign coast, 
But at this feast of Pentecost 

Before him must appear. 
Ah, Minstrels ! when the Table Round 
Arose, with all its warriors crown'd, 
There was a theme for bards to sound 

In triumph to their string! 
Five hundred years are past and gone, 
But time shall draw his dying groan, 
Ere he behold the British throne 

Begirt with such a ring ! 
XIII. 

" The heralds named the appointed spot, 
As Caerleon 01 Camelot, 

Or Carlisle fair and free. 
At Penrith, now, the feast was set, 
And in fair Eamont's vale were met 

The flower of Chivalry. 
There Galaad sate with manly grace, 
Yet maiden meekness in his face ; 
There Morolt of the iron mace, 

And love-lorn Tristrem there: 9 
And Dinadam with lively glance, 
And Lanval with the fairy lance, 
And Mordred with his look askance, 

Brunor and Bevidere. 
Why should I tell of numbers more ? 
Sir Cay, Sir Bannier, and Sir Bore, 



Sir Carodac the keen, 
The gentle Gawain's courteous lore, 
Hector de Mares and Pellinore, 
And Lancelot, that ever more 

Look'd stol'n-wise on the Queen. 10 

XIV. 

1 ' When wine and mirth did most abound, 
And harpers play'd their blithest round, 
A shrilly trumpet shook the ground, 

And marshals clear' d the ring ; 
A maiden, on a palfrey white, 
Heading a band of damsels bright, 
Paced through the circle, to alight 

And kneel before the King. 
Arthur, with strong emotion, saw 
Her graceful boldness check'd by awe, 
Her dress, like huntress of the wold, 
Her bow and baldric trapp'd with gold, 
Her sandall'd feet, her ankles bare, 
And the eagle-plume that deck'd her hair. 

Graceful her veil she backward flung 

The King, as from his seat he sprung, 

Almost cried, ' Guendolen !' 
But 'twas a face more frank and wild, 
Betwixt the woman and the child, 
Where less of magic beauty smiled 

Than of the race of men ; 
And in the forehead's haughty grace, 
The lines of Britain's royal race, 

Pendragon's you might ken. 



' ' Faltering, yet gracefully, she said — 
' Great Prince ! behold an orphan maid, 
In her departed mother's name, 
A father's vow'd protection claim ! 
The vow was sworn in desert lone, 
In the deep valley of St. John.' 
At once the King the suppliant raised, 
And kiss'd her brow, her beauty praised ; 
His vow, he said, should well be kept, 
Ere in the sea the sun was dipp'd, — 
Then, conscious, glanced upon his queen ; 
But she, unruffled at the scene 
Of human frailty, construed mild, 
Look'd upon Lancelot and smiled. 

XVI. 

" ' Up ! up ! each knight of gallant crest 

Take buckler, spear, and brand ! 
He that to-day shall bear him best, 

Shall win my Gyneth's hand. 
And Arthur's daughter, when a bride, 

Shall bring a noble dower ; 
Both fair Strath-Clyde and Reged wide, 

And Carlisle town and tower.' 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



241 



Then might you hear each valiant knight, 

To page and squire that cried, 
' Bring my armour bright, and my courser 

wight! 
'Tis not each day that a warrior's might 

May win a royal bride.' 
Then cloaks and caps of maintenance 

In haste aside they fling; 
The helmets glance, and gleams the lance, 

And the steel-weaved hauberks ring. 
Small care had they of their peaceful array, 

They might gather it that wolde ; 
For brake and bramble glitter'd gay, 

With pearls and cloth of gold. 

xvir. 
•'Within trumpet sound of the Table 
Round 

Were fifty champions free, 
And they all arise to fight that prize, — 

They all arise but three. 
Nor love's fond troth, nor wedlock's oath, 

One gallant could withhold, 
For priests will allow of a broken vow, 

For penance or for gold. 
But sigh and glance from ladies bright 

Among the troop were thrown, 
To plead their right, and true-love plight, 

And 'plain of honour flown. 
The knights they busied them so fast, 

With buckling spur and belt, 
That sigh and look, by ladies cast, 

Were neither seen nor felt. 
From pleading or upbraiding glance, 

Each gallant turns aside, 
And only thought, ' If speeds my lance, 

A queen becomes my bride ! 
She has fair Strath-Clyde, and Reged 
wide, 

And Carlisle tower and town ; 
She is the loveliest maid, beside, 

That ever heir'd a crown.' 
So in haste their coursers they bestride, 

And strike their visors down . 

XVIII. 

"The champions, arm'd in martial sort, 

Have throng'd into the list, 
And but three knights of Arthur's court 

Are from the tourney miss'd. 
And still these lovers' fame survives 

For faith so constant shown, — 
There were two who loved their neigh- 
bour's wives, 

And one who loved his own." 
The first was Lancelot de Lac, 

The second Tristrem bold, 



The third was valiant Carodac, 

Who won the cup of gold, 12 
What time, of all King Arthur's crew, 

(Thereof came jeer and laugh,) 
He, as the mate of lady true, 

Alone the cup could quaff. 
Though envy's tongue would fain surmise, 

That but for very shame, 
Sir Carodac, to fight that prize, 

Had given both cup and dame ; 
Yet, since but one of that fair court 

Was true to wedlock's shrine, 
Brand him who will with base report, — 

He shall be free from mine. 

XIX. 

" Now caracoled the steeds in air, 
Now plumes and pennons wanton'd fair, 
As all around the lists so wide 
In panoply the champions ride. 
King Arthur saw with startled eye, 
The flower of chivalry march by, 
The bulwark of the Christian creed, 
The kingdom's shield in hour of need. 
Too late he thought him of the woe 
Might from their civil conflict flow ; 
For well he knew they would not part 
Till cold was many a gallant heart. 
His hasty vow he 'gan to rue, 
And Gyneth then apart he drew; 
To her his leading-staff resign' d, 
But added caution grave and kind. 

XX. 

'"Thou seest, my child, as promise-bound, 
I bid the trump for tourney sound. 
Take thou my warder as the queen 
And umpire of the martial scene ; 
But mark thou this : — as Beauty bright 
Is polar star to valiant knight, 
As at het word his sword he draws, 
His fairest guerdon her applause, 
So gentle maid should never ask 
Of knighthood vain and dangerous task ; 
And Beauty's eyes should ever be 
Like the twin stars that soothe the sea, 
And Beauty's breath shall whisper peace, 
And bid the storm of battle cease. 
I tell thee this, lest all too far, 
These knights urge tourney into war. 
Blithe at the trumpet let them go, 
And fairly counter blow for blow ; — 
No striplings these, who succour need 
For a razed helm or falling steed. 
But, Gyneth, when the strife grows warm, 
And threatens death or deadly harm, 
Thy sire entreats, thy king commands, 
Thou drop the warder from thy hands. 
16 



242 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Trust thou thy father with thy fate, 
Doubt not he choose thee fitting mate; 
Nor bo it said, through Gyueth's pride 
A rose of Arthur's chaplet died.' 

XXI. 
" A proud and discontented glow 
O'ershadow'd Gyneth's brow of snow; 

She put the warder by : — 
• Reserve thy boon, my liege,' she said, 
' Thus chaffer'd down and limited, 
Debased and narrow'd, for a maid 

Of less degree than I. 
No petty chief but holds his heir 
At a more honour'd price and rare 

Than Britain's King holds me! 
Although the sun-burn'd maid, for dower, 
Has but her father's rugged tower, 

His barren hill and lee. — 
King Arthur swore, ' ' By crown and sword, 
As belted knight and Britain's lord, 
That a whole summer's day should strive 
His knights, the bravest knights alive ! " 
Recall thine oath ! and to her glen 
Poor Gyneth can return agen ! 
Not on thy daughter will the stain, 
That soils thy sword and crown remain. 
But think not she will e'er be bride 
Save to the bravest, proved and tried ; 
Pendragon's daughter will not fear 
For clashing sword or splinter'd spear, 

Nor shrink though blood should flow ; 
And all too well sad Guendolen 
Hath taught the faithlessness of men, 
That child of hers should pity, when 

Their meed they undergo.' — 

xxn. 
" He frown'd and sigh'd, the Monarch 

bold :— 
' I give — what I may not withhold ; 
For, not for danger, dread, or death, 
Must British Arthur break his faith. 
Too late I mark, thy mother's art 
Hath taught thee this relentless part. 
I blame her not, for she had wrong, 
But not to these my faults belong. 
Use, then, the warder as thou wilt; 
But trust me, that, if life be spilt, 
In Arthur's love, in Arthur's grace, 
Gyneth shall lose a daughter's place.' 
With that he turn'd his head aside, 
Nor brook'd to gaze upon her pride, 
As, with the truncheon raised, she sate 
The arbitress of mortal fate : 
Nor brook'd to mark, in ranks disposed, 
How the bold champions stood opposed, 



For shrill the trumpet-flourish fell 
Upon his ear like passing bell ! 
Then first from sight of martial fray 
Did Britain's hero turn away. 

XXIII. 

" But Gyneth heard the clangour high, 
As hears the hawk the partridge cry. 
Oh, blame her not! the blood was hers, 
That at the trumpet's summons stirs ! — 
And e'en the gentlest female eye 
Might the brave strife of chivalry 

A while untroubled view ; 
So well accomplish'd was each knight, 
To strike and to defend in fight, 
Their meeting was a goodly sight, 

While plate and mail held true. 
The lists with painted plumes were strewn, 
Upon the wind at random thrown, 
But helm and breastplate bloodless shone, 
It seem'd their feather'd crests alone 

Should this encounter rue. 
And ever, as the combat grows 
The trumpet's cheery voice arose, 
Like lark's shrill song the flourish flows, 
Heard while the gale of April blows 

The merry greenwood through. 

XXIV. 

" But soon to earnest grew their game, 
The spears drew blood, the swords struck 

flame, 
And, horse and man, to ground there came 

Knights, who shall rise no more ! 
Gone was the pride the war that graced, 
Gay shields were cleft, and crests defaced, 
And steel coats riven, and helms unbraced, 

And pennons stream'd with gore. 
Gone, too, were fence and fair array, 
And desperate strength made deadly way 
At random through the bloody fray, 
And blows were dealt with headlong sway, 

Unheeding where they fell ; 
And now the trumpet's clamours seem 
Like the shrill sea-bird's wailing scream, 
Heard o'er the whirlpool's gulfing stream, 

The sinking seaman's knell ! 

XXV. 

" Seem'd in this dismal hour, that Fate 
Would Camlan's ruin antedate, 

And spare dark Mordred's crime; 
Already gasping on the ground 
Lie twenty of the Table Round, 

Of chivalry the prime. 
Arthur, in anguish, tore away 
From head and beard his tresses gray, 
And she, proud Gyneth, felt dismay, 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMA1N. 



243 



And quaked with ruth and fear ; 
But still she deem'd her mother's shade 
Hung o'er the tumult, and forbade 
The sign that had the slaughter staid, 

And chid the rising tear. 
Then Brunor, Taulas, Mador, fell, 
Helias the White, and Lionel, 

And many a champion more ; 
Rochemont and Dinadam are down, 
And Ferrand of the Forest Brown 

Lies gasping in his gore, 
Vanoc, by mighty Morolt press'd 
Even to the confines of the list, 
Young Vanoc of the beardless face, 
(Fame spoke the youth of Merlin's race,) 
O'erpower'd at Gyneth's footstool bled, 
His heart's-blood dyed her sandals red. 
But then the sky was overcast, 
Then howl'd at once a whirlwind's blast, 

And, rent by sudden throes, 
Yawn'd in mid lists the quaking earth, 
And horn the gulf, — tremendous birth!— 

The form of Merlin rose. 

XXVI. 

• * Sternly the Wizard Prophet eyed 
The dreary lists with slaughter dyed, 

And sternly raised his hand : — 

* Madmen," he said, 'your strife forbear; 
And thou, fair cause of mischief, hear 

The doom thy fates demand ! 
Long shall close in stony sleep 
Eyes for ruth that would not weep ; 
Iron lethargy shall seal 
Heart that pity scorn'd to feel. 
Yet, because thy mother's art 
Warp'd thine unsuspicious heart, 
And for love of Arthur's race, 
Punishment is blent with grace, 
Thou shalt bear thy penance lone 
In the Valley of Saint John, 
And this weird * shall overtake thee ; 
Sleep, until a knight shall wake thee, 
For feats of arms as far renown'd 
As warrior of the Table Round. 
Long endurance of thy slumber 
Well may teach the world to number 
All their woes from Gyneth's pride, 
When the Red Cross champions died.' 

xxvn. 
"As Merlin speaks, on Gyneth's eye 
Slumber's load begins to lie ; 
Fear and anger vainly strive 
Still to keep its light alive. 

* Doom. 



Twice, with effort and with pause, 
O'er her brow her hand she draws ; 
Twice her strength in vain she tries, 
From the fatal chair to rise, 
Merlin's magic doom is spoken, 
Vanoc's death must now be wroken. 
Slow the dark-fringed eyelids fall, 
Curtaining each azure ball, 
Slowly as on summer eves 
Violets fold their dusky leaves. 
The weighty baton of command 
Now bears down her sinking hand, 
On her shoulder droops her head ; 
Net of pearl and golden thread, 
Bursting, gave her locks to flow 
O'er her arm and breast of snow. 
And so lovely seem'd she there, 
Spell-bound in her ivory chair, 
That her angry sire, repenting, 
Craved stern Merlin for relenting, 
And the champions, for her sake, 
Would again the contest wake ; 
Till, in necromantic night, 
Gyneth vanish'd from their sight. 

XXVIII. 

" Still she bears her weird alone 
In the Valley of Saint John ; 
And her semblance oft will seem, 
Mingling in a champion's dream, 
Of her weary lot to 'plain, 
And crave his aid to burst her chain. 
While her wondrous tale was new, 
Warriors to her rescue drew, 
East and west, and south and north, 
From the Liffy, Thames, and Forth. 
Most have sought in vain the glen, 
Tower nor castle could they ken ; 
Not at every time or tide, 
Nor by every eye, descried. 
Fast and vigil must be borne, 
Many a night in watching worn, 
Ere an eye of mortal powers 
Can discern those magic towers. 
Of the persevering few, 
Some from hopeless task withdrew, 
When they read the dismal threat 
Graved upon the gloomy gate. 
Few have braved the yawning door, 
And those few return'd no more. 
In the lapse of time forgot, 
Wellnigh lost is Gyneth's lot ; 
Sound her sleep as in the tomb, 
Till waken'd by the tramp of doom, 9 

END OF LYULPH'S TALE. 



244 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Here pause my tali* ; for all too soon, 
My Lucy, conies the hour of noon. 
Already from thy lofty dome 
Its courtly inmates 'gin to roam, 
And each, to kill the goodly day 
That God has granted them, his way 
Of lazy sauntering has sought ; 

Lordlings and witlings not a few, 
Incapable of doing aught, 
Yet ill at ease with nought to do. 
Here is no longer place for me ; 
For, Lucy, thou wouldst blush to see 
Some phantom fashionably thin, 
With limb of lath and kerchief d chin, 
And lounging gape, or sneering grin, 
Steal sudden on our privacy. 
And how should I, so humbly born, 
Endure the graceful spectre's scorn? 
Faith ! ill, I fear, while conjuring wand 
Of Engiish oak is hard at hand. 

ir. 
Or grant the hour be all too soon 
For Hessian boot and pantaloon, 
And grant the lounger seldom strays 
Beyond the smooth and gravell'd maze, 
Laud we the gods, that Fashion's train 
Folds hearts of more adventurous strain. 
Artists are hers, who scorn to trace 
Their rules from Nature's boundless grace, 
But their right paramount assert 
To limit her by pedant art, 
Damning whate'er of vast and fair 
Exceeds a canvas three feet square. 
This thicket, for their gumption fit, 
May furnish such a happy bit. 
Bards, too, are hers, wont to recite 
Their own sweet lays by waxen light, 
Half in the salver's tingle drown'd, 
While the chasse-cafe glides around ; 
And such may hither secret stray, 
To labour an extempore : 
Or sportsman, with his boisterous hollo 
May here his wiser spaniel follow, 
Or stage-struck Juliet may presume 
To choose this bower for tiring-room ; 
And we alike must shun regard, 
From painter, player, sportsman, bard. 
Insects that skim in Fashion's sky, 
Wasp, blue-bottle, or butterfly, 
Lucy, have all alarms for us, 
For all can hum and all can buzz. 

in. 
But oh, my Lucy, say how long 
We still must dread this trifling throng, 
And stoop to hide, with coward art, 
The genuine feelings of the heart! 



No parents thine whose just command 
Should rule their child's obedient hand ; 
Thy guardians, with contending voice, 
Press each his individual choice. 
And which is Lucy's? — Can it be 
That puny fop, trimm'd cap-a-pee, 
Who loves in the saloon to show 
The arms that never knew a foe ; 
Whose sabre trails along the ground, 
Whose legs in shapeless boots are 

drown'd ; 
A new Achilles, sure, — the steel 
Fled from his breast to fence his heel ; i 
One, for the simple manly grace 
That wont to deck our martial race, 

Who comes in foreign trashery 
Of tinkling chain and spur, 

A walking haberdashery, 
Of feathers, lace, and fur : 
In Rowley's antiquated phrase, 
Horse-milliner of modern days ? 

IV. 

Or is it he, the wordy youth, 

So early train'd for statesman's part, 

Who talks of honour, faith, and truth, 
As themes that he has got by heart ; 
Whose ethics Chesterfield can teach, 
Whose logic is from Single-speech ; 13 
Who scorns the meanest thought to vent, 
Save in the phrase of Parliament ; 
Who, in a tale of cat and mouse, 
Calls " order," and "divides the house," 
Who "craves permission to reply," 
Whose "noble friend is in his eye ; " 
Whose loving tender some have reckon'd 
A motion, you should gladly second ? 



What, neither? Can there be a third, 
To such resistless swains preferr'd? — 
O why, my Lucy, turn aside, 
With that quick glance of injured pride ? 
Forgive me, love, I cannot bear 
That alter'd and resentful air. 
Were all the wealth of Russel mine, 
And all the rank of Howard's line, 
All would I give for leave to dry 
That dewdrop trembling in thine eye. 
Think not I fear such fops can wile 
From Lucy more than careless smile ; 
But yet if wealth and high degree 
Give gilded counters currency, 
Must I not fear, when rank and birth 
Stamp the pure ore of genuine worth ? 
Nobles there are, whose martial fires, 
Rival the fame that raised their sires, 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



245 



And patriots, skill'd through storms of 

fate 
To guide and guard the reeling state. 
Such, such there are — if such should come, 
Arthur must tremble and be dumb, 
Self-exiled seek some distant shore, 
And mourn till life and grief are o'er. 

VI. 

What sight, what signal of alarm, 
That Lucy clings to Arthur's arm ? 
Or is it, that the rugged way 
Makes Beauty lean on lover's stay ? 
Oh, no ! for on the vale and brake, 
Nor sight nor sounds of danger wake, 
And this trim sward of velvet green, 
Were carpet for the Fairy Queen. 
That pressure slight was but to tell, 
That Lucy loves her Arthur well, 
And fain would banish from his mind 
Suspicious fear and doubt unkind. 

VII. 

But would 'st thou bid the demons fly 
Like mist before the dawning sky, 
There is but one resistless spell — 
Say, wilt thou guess, or must I tell? 
'Tvvere hard to name, in minstrel phrase, 
A landauiet and four blood-bays, 
But bards agree this wizard band 
Can but be bound in Northern land. 
'Tis there — nay, draw not back thy 

hand ! — 
'Tis there this slender finger round 
Must golden amulet be bound, 
Which, bless'd with many a holy prayer, 
Can change to rapture lovers' care, 
And doubt and jealousy shall die, 
And fears give place to ecstasy. 

VIII. 

Now, trust me, Lucy, all too long 
Has been thy lover's tale and song. 
O, why so silent, love, I pray? 
Have I not spoke the livelong day ? 
And will not Lucy deign to say 

One word her friend to bless? 
I ask but one — a simple sound, 
Within three little letters bound, 

O, let the word be YES ! 



CANTO THIRD. 

INTRODUCTION. 



Long loved, long woo'd, and lately won, 
My life's best hope, and now mine own ! 



Doth not this rude and Alpine glen 
Recall our favourite haunts agen ? 
A wild resemblance we can trace, 
Though reft of every softer grace, 
As the rough warrior's brow may bear 
A likeness to a sister fair. 
Full well advised our Highland host, 
That this wild pass on foot be cross'd, ' 
While round Ben-Cruach's mighty base 
Wheel the slowsteedsand lingering chaise. 
The keen old carle, with Scottish pride, 
He praised his glen and mountains wide ; 
An eye he bears for nature's face, 
Ay, and for woman's lovely grace. 
Even in such mean degree we find 
The subtle Scot's observing mind ; 
For, nor the chariot nor the train 
Could gape of vulgar wonder gain, 
But when old Allan would expound 
Of Beal-na-paish* the Celtic sound, 
His bonnet doff' d, and bow, applied 
His legend to my bonny bride ; 
While Lucy blush 'd beneath his eye, 
Courteous and cautious, shrewd and sly. 

11. 
Enough of him. — Now, ere we lose, 
Plunged in the vale, the distant views, 
Turn thee, my love ! look back once more 
To the blue lake's retiring shore. 
On its smooth breast the shadows seem 
Like objects in a morning dream, 
What time the slumberer is aware 
He sleeps, and all the vision's air: 
Even so, on yonder liquid lawn, 
In hues of bright reflection drawn, 
Distinct the shaggy mountains lie, 
Distinct the rocks, distinct the sky ; 
The summer-clouds so plain we note, 
That we might count each dappled spot : 
We gaze and we admire, yet know 
The scene is all delusive show. 
Such dreams of bliss would Arthur draw, 
When first his Lucy's form he saw; 
Yet sigh'd and sicken'd as he drew, 
Despairing they could e'er prove true ! 

in. 
But, Lucy, turn thee now, to view 

Up the fair glen, our destined way: 
The fairy path that we pursue, 
Distinguish' d but by greener hue, 

Winds round the purple brae, * 

While Alpine flowers of varied dye 
For carpet serve, or tapestry. 



* Beal-na-paish, in English the Vale of the 
Bridal. 



246 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



See how (lie little runnels leap, 

In threads of silver, down the steep, 

To swell the brooklet's moan ! 
Seems that the Highland Naiad grieves, 
Fantastic while her crown she weaves, 
Of rowan, birch, and alder-leaves, 

So lovely, and so lone. 
There's no illusion there ; these flowers, 
That wailing brook, these lovely bowers, 

Are, Lucy, all our own ; 
And, since thine Arthur call'd thee wife, 
Such seems the prospect of his life, 
A lovely path, on-winding still, 
By gurgling brook and sloping hill. 
'Tis true, that mortals cannot tell 
What waits them in the distant dell ; 
But be it hap, or be it harm, 
We tread the pathway arm in arm. 



And now, my Lucy, wot'st thou why 
I could thy bidding twice deny, 
When twice you pray'd I would again 
Resume the legendary strain 
Of the bold knight of Triermain? 
At length yon peevish vow you swore, 
That you would sue to me no more, 
Until the minstrel fit drew near, , 
And made me prize a listening ear. 
But, loveliest, when thou first didst pray 
Continuance of the knightly lay, 
Was it not on the happy day 

That made thy hand mine own ? 
When, dizzied with mine ecstasy, 
Nought past, or present, or to be, 
Could I or think on, hear, or see, 

Save, Lucy, thee alone ! 
A giddy draught my rapture was, 
As ever chemist's magic gas. 



Again the summons I denied 
In yon fair capital of Clyde : 
My Harp — or let me rather choose 
The good old classic form — my Muse, 
(For Harp's an over-scutched phrase, 
Worn out by bards of modern days,) 
My Muse, then — seldom will she wake, 
Save by dim wood and silent lake ; 
She is the wild and rustic Maid, 
Whose foot unsandall'd loves to tread 
Where the soft greensward is inlaid 

With varied moss and thyme ; 
And, lest the simple lily-braid, 
That coronets her temples, fade, 
She hides her still in greenwood shade, 

To meditate her rhyme. 



And now she comes! The murmur dear 
Of the wild brook hath caught her ear, 

The glade hath won her eye, 
She longs to join with each blithe rill 
That dances down the Highland hill, 

Her blither melody. 
And now, my Lucy's way to cheer, 
She bids Ben-Cruach's echoes hear 
How closed the tale, my love whilere 

Loved for its chivalry. 
List how she tells, in notes of flame, 
"Child Roland to the dark tower came." 



CANTO THIRD. 



Bewcastle now must keep the Hold, 

Speir-Adam's steeds must bide in stall, 
Of Hartley-burn the bowmen bold 

Must only shoot from battled wall ; 
And Liddesdale may buckle spur, 

And Teviot now may belt the brand, 
Tarras and Ewes keep nightly stir, 

And Eskdale foray Cumberland. 
Of wasted fields and plunder'd flocks 

The Borderers bootless may complain ; 
They lack the sword of brave de Vaux, 

There comes no aid from Triermain. 
That lord, on high adventure bound, 

Hath wander'd forth alone, 
And day and night keeps watchful round 

In the valley of Saint John. 



When first began his vigil bold, 

The moon twelve summer nights was old, 

And shone both fair and full ; 
High in the vault of cloudless blue, 
O'er streamlet, dale, and rock, she threw 

Her light composed and cool. 
Stretch'd on the brown hill's heathy breast, 

Sir Roland eyed the vale ; 
Chief where, distinguish' d from the rest, 
Those clustering rocks uprear'd their crest, 
The dwelling of the fair distress'd, 

As told gray Lyulph's tale. 
Thus as he lay the lamp of night 
Was quivering on his armour bright, 

In beams that rose and fell, 
And danced upon his buckler's boss, 
That lay beside him on the moss, 

As on a crystal well. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIER MAIN. 



247 



Ever he watch'd, and oft he deem'd, 
While on the mound the moonlight 
stream'd, 

It alter'd to his eyes; 
Fain would he hope the rocks 'gan 

change 
To buttress'd walls their shapeless range, 
Fain think, by transmutation strange, 

He saw gray turrets rise. 
But scarce his heart with hope throbb'd 

high, 
Before the wild illusions fly, 

Which fancy had conceived, 
Abetted by an anxious eye 

That long'd to be deceived. 
It was a fond deception all, 
Such as, in solitary hall, 

Beguiles the musing eye, 
When, gazing on the sinking fire, 
Bulwark, and battlement, and spire, 

In the red gulf we spy. 
For, seen by moon of middle night, 
Or by the blaze of noontide bright, 
Or by the dawn of morning light, 

Or evening's western flame, 
In every tide, at every hour, 
In mist, in sunshine, and in shower, 

The rocks remain'd the same. 



Oft has he traced the charmed mound, 
Oft climb'd its crest, or paced it round, 

Yet nothing might explore, 
Save that the crags so rudely piled, 
At distance seen, resemblance wild 

To a rough fortress bore. 
Yet still his watch the Warrior keeps, 
Feeds hard and spare, and seldom sleeps, 

And drinks but of the well : 
Ever by day he walks the hill, 
And when the evening gale is chill, 

He seeks a rocky cell, 
Like hermit poor to bid his bead, 
And tell his Ave and his Creed, 
Invoking every saint at need, 

For aid to burst his spell. 



And now the moon her orb has hid, 
And dwindled to a silver thread, 

Dim seen in middle heaven, 
While o'er its curve careering fast, 
Before the fury of the blast 

The midnight clouds are driven. 
The brooklet raved, for on the hills, 
The upland showers had swoln the rills, 



And down the torrents came ; [ 
Mutter'd the distant thunder dread, 
And frequent o'er the vale was spread 

A sheet of lightning flame. 
De Vaux, within his mountain cave, 
(No human step the storm durst brave,) 
To moody meditation gave 

Each faculty of soul, 
Till, lull'd by distant torrent sound, 
And the sad winds that whistled round, 
Upon his thoughts, in musing drown'd, 

A broken slumber stole. 

VI. 

'Twas then was heard a heavy sound, 

(Sound, strange and fearful there to hear, 
'Mongst desert hills, where, leagues around, 

Dwelt but the gorcock and the deer :) 
As, starting from his couch of fern, 
Again he heard in clangour stern, 

That deep and solemn swell, — 
Twelve times, in measured tone, it spoke, ] 
Like some proud minster's pealing clock, 

Or city's 'larum-bell. 
What thought was Roland's first when fell, 
In that deep wilderness, the knell 

Upon his startled ear? 
To slander warrior were I loth, 
Yet must I ho>J my minstrel troth, — 
It was a thought of fear. 

vn. 

But lively was the mingled thrill 
That chased that momentary chill, 

For Love's keen wish was there, 
And eager Hope, and Valour high, 
And the proud glow of Chivalry, 

That burn'd to do and dare. 
Forth from the cave the Warrior rush'd, 
Long ere the mountain-voice was hush'd, 

That answer'd to the knell; 
For long and far the unwonted sound, 
Eddying in echoes round and round, 

Was toss'd from fell to fell ; , 

And Glaramara answer flung, 
And Grisdale-pike responsive rung, 
And Legbert heights their echoes swung, 

As far as Derwent's dell. 

VIII. 
Forth upon trackless darkness gazed 
The Knight, bedeafen'd and amazed, 

Till all was hush'd and still, 
Save the swoln torrent's sullen roar, 
And the night-blast that wildly bore 

Its course along the hill. 
Then on the northern sky there came 
A light, as of reflected flame, 



24S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And over Legbert-head, 
As if by magic art controll'd, 

A mighty meteor slowly roll'd 

Its orb of fiery red ; 
Thou wouldst have thought sonic demon 

dire 
Came mounted on that car of fire, 

To do his errand dread. 
Far on the sloping valley's course, 
On thicket, rock, and torrent hoarse, 
Shingle and Scrae,* and Fell and Force.f 

A dusky light arose : 
Display'd, yet alter'd was the scene ; 
Dark rock, and brook of silver sheen, 
Even the gay thicket's summer green, 

In bloody tincture glows. 

IX. 

De Vaux had mark'd the sunbeams set, 
At eve, upon the coronet 

Of that enchanted mound, 
And seen but crags at random flung, 
That, o'er the brawling torrent hung, 

In desolation frown'd. 
What sees he by that meteor's lour? — 
A banner'd Castle, keep, and tower, 

Return the lurid gleam, 
With battled walls and buttress fast, 
And barbican J and ballium§ vast, 
And airy flanking towers, that cast 

Their shadows on the stream. 
'Tis no deceit ! — distinctly clear 
Crenell|| and parapet appear, 
While o'er the pile that meteor drear 

Makes momentary pause ; 
Then forth its solemn path it drew, 
And fainter yet and fainter grew 
Those gloomy towers upon the view, 

As its wild light withdraws. 



Forth from the cave did Roland rush, 
O'er crag and stream, through brier and 
bush, 

Yet far he had not sped, 
Ere sunk was that portentous light 
Behind the hills, and utter night 

Was on the valley spread. 
He paused perforce, and blew his horn, 
And, on the mountain-echoes borne, 

Was heard an answering sound, 
A wild and lonely trumpet-note, — 



Bank of loose stones. t Waterfall. 
X The outer defence of a castle gate. 
§ A fortified court. 
|| Apertures for shooting arrows. 



In middle air it seem'd to float 

High o'er the battled mound ; 
And sounds were heard, as when a guard, 
Of some proud castle, holding ward, 

Pace forth their nightly round. 
The valiant Knight of Triermain 
Rung forth his challenge-blast again, 

But answer came there none ; 
And 'mid the mingled wind and rain, 
Darkling he sought the vale in vain, 

Until the dawning shone ; 
And when it dawn'd, that wondrous sight, 
Distinctly seen by meteor light, 

It all had pass'd away ! 
And that enchanted mount once more 
A pile of granite fragments bore, 

As at the close of day. 



Steel' d for the deed, De Vaux's heart, 
Scorn'd from his vent'rous quest to part, 

He walks the vale once more ; 
But only sees, by night or day, 
That shatter' d pile of rocks so gray, 

Hears but the torrent's roar. 
Till when, through hills of azure borne, 
The moon renew'd her silver horn, 
Just at the time her waning ray 
Had faded in the dawning day, 

A 'summer mist arose ; 
Adown the vale the vapours float, 
And cloudy undulations moat 
That tufted mound of mystic note, 

As round its base they close. 
And higher now the fleecy tide 
Ascends its stern and shaggy side, 
Until the airy billows hide 

The rock's majestic isle; i 
It seem'd a veil of filmy lawn, 
By some fantastic fairy drawn 

Around enchanted pile. 

XII. 

The breeze came softly down the brook, 

And, sighing as it blew, 
The veil of silver mist it shook, 
And to De Vaux's eager look 

Renew'd that wondrous view. 
For, though the loitering vapour braved 
The gentle breeze, yet oft it waved 

Its mantle's dewy fold ; 
And still, when shook that filmy screen, 
Were towers and bastions dimly seen, 
And Gothic battlements between 

Their gloomy length unroll'd. 
Speed, speed, De Vaux, ere on thine eye 
Once more the fleeting vision die ! 






THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



249 



—The gallant knight 'gan speed 
As prompt and light as, when the hound 
Is opening, and the horn is wound, 

Careers the hunter's steed. 
Down the steep dell his course amain 

Hath rivall'd archer's shaft ; 
But ere the mound he could attain, 
The rocks their shapeless form regain, 
And, mocking loud his labour vain, 

The mountain spirits laugh' d. 
Far up the echoing dell was borne 
Their wild unearthly shout of scorn. 

xiir. 
Wroth wax'd the Warrior. — " Am I then 
Fool'd by the enemies of men, 
Like a poor hind, whose homeward way 
Is haunted by malicious fay ! 
Is Triermain become your taunt, 
De Vaux your scorn? False fiends, 

avaunt ! " 
A weighty curtal-axe he bare ; 
The baleful blade so bright and square, 
And the tough shaft of heben wood. 
Were oft in Scottish gore imbrued. 
Backward his stately form he drew, 
And at the rocks the weapon threw, 
Just where one crag's projected crest 
Hung proudly balanced o'er the rest. 
Hurl'd with main force, the weapon's shock 
Rent a huge fragment of the rock. 
If by mere strength, 'twere hard to tell, 
Or if the blow dissolved some spell, 
But down the headlong ruin came, 
With cloud of dust and flash of flame. 
Down bank, o'er bush, its course was 

borne, 
Crush' d lay the copse, the earth was torn, 
Till staid at length, the ruin dread 
Cumber'd the torrent's rocky bed, 
And bade the water's high-swoln tide 
Seek other passage for its pride. 

XIV. 

When ceased that thunder, Triermain 
Survey'd the mound's rude* front again; 
And lo ! the ruin had laid bare, 
Hewn in the stone, a winding stair, 
Whose moss'd and fractured steps might 

lend 
The means the summit to ascend ; 
And by whose aid the brave De Vaux 
Began to scale these magic rocks, 

And soon a platform won, 
Where, the wild witchery to close, 
Within three lances' length arose 

The Castle of Saint John I 



No misty phantom of the air, 
No meteor-blazon'd show was there ; 
In morning splendour, full and fair, 
The massive fortress shone. 



Embattled high and proudly tower'd, 
Shaded by pond'rous flankers, lower'd 

The portal's gloomv way. 
Though for six hundrea years and more, 
Its strength had brook'd the tempest's roar, 
The scutcheon'd emblems which it bore 

Had suffer'd no decay : 
But from the eastern battlement 
A turret had made sheer descent, 
And, down in recent ruin rent, 

In the mid torrent lay. 
Else, o'er the Castle's brow sublime, 
Insults of violence or of time 

Unfelt had pass'd away. 
In shapeless characters of yore, 
The gate this stern inscription bore : — 



INSCRIPTION. 

" Patience waits the destined day, 
Strength can clear the cumber'd way. 
Warrior, who hast waited long, 
Firm of soul, of sinew strong, 
It is given thee to gaze 
On the pile of ancient days. 
Never mortal builder's hand 
This enduring fabric plann'd ; 
Sign and sigil, word of power, 
From the earth raised keep and tower. 
View it o'er, and pace it round, 
Rampart, turret, battled mound. 
Dare no more ! To cross the gate 
Were to tamper with thy fate : 
Strength and fortitude were vain, 
View it o'er — and turn again." 

XVII. 

" That would I," said the Warrior bold, 
" If that my frame were bent and old, 
And my thin blood dropp'd slow and cold, 

As icicle in thaw ; 
But while my heart can feel it dance, 
Blithe as the sparkling wine of France, 
And this good arm wields sword or lance, 

I mock these words of awe ! " 
He said ! the wicket felt the sway 
Of his strong hand, and straight gave way, 
And, with rude crash and jarring bray, 

The rusty bolts withdraw ; 
But o'er the threshold as he strode, 
And forward took the vaulted road, 



250 



SC0TT s S POETICAL WORKS. 



An unseen arm, with force amain, 
The ponderous gate flung close again, 

And rusted bolt and bar 
Spontaneous took their place once more, 
While the deep arch with sullen roar 

Return'd their surly jar. 
1 ' Now closed is the gin and the prey within 

By the rood of Lanercost ! 
But he that would win the war-wolf's skin, 

May rue him of his boast." 
Thus muttering, on the Warrior went, 
By dubious light down deep descent. 

XVIII. 

Unbarr'd, unlock'd, unwatch'd, a port 
Led to the Castle's outer court : 
There the main fortress, broad and tall, 
Spread its long range of bower and hall, 

And towers of varied size, 
Wrought with each ornament extreme, 
That Gothic art, in wildest dream 

Of fancy, could devise ; 
But full between the Warrior's way 
And the main portal arch, there lay 

An inner moat ; 

Nor bridge not boat 
Affords De Vaux the means to cross 
The clear, profound, and silent fosse. 
His arms aside in haste he flings, 
Cuirass of steel and hauberk rings, 
And down falls helm, and down the shield, 
Rough with the dints of many a field. 
Fair was his manly form, and fair 
His keen dark eye, and close-curl' d hair, 
When, all unarm'd, save that the brand 
Of well-proved metal graced his hand, 
With nought to fence his dauntless breast 
But the close gipon's * under-vest, 
Whose sullied buff the sable stains 
Of Hauberk and of mail retains, — 
Roland De Vaux upon the brim 
Of the broad moat stood prompt to swim. 

XIX. 

Accoutred thus he dared the tide, 
And soon he reach'd the farther side, 

And enter'd soon the Hold, 
And paced a hall, whose walls so wide 
Were blazon'd all with feats of pride, 

By warriors done of old. 
In middle lists they counter'd here, 

While trumpets seem'd to blow ; 
And there, in den or desert drear, 

They quell'd gigantic foe, 



* A sort of doublet, worn beneath the ar- 
mour. 



Braved the fierce griffon in his ire, 
Or faced the dragon's breath of fire. 
Strange in their arms, and strange in 

face, 
Heroes they seem'd of ancient race, 
Whose deeds of arms, and race, and name, 
Forgotten long by later fame, 

Were here depicted, to appal 
Those of an age degenerate, 
Whose bold intrusion braved their fate, 

In this enchanted hall. 
For some short space the venturous knight 
With these high marvels fed his sight, 
Then sought the chamber's upper end, 
Where three broad easy steps ascend 

To an areh'd portal door, 
In whose broad folding leaves of state 
Was framed a wicket window-grate, 

And, ere he ventured more, 
The gallant Knight took earnest view 
The grated wicket-window through. 

XX. 

O, for his arms! Of martial weed 
Had never mortal Knight such need ! 
He spied a stately gallery ; all 
Of snow-white marble was the wall, 

The vaulting, and the floor; 
And, contrast strange, on either hand 
There stood array'd in sable band 

Four Maids whom Afric bore : 
And each a Libyan tiger led, 
Held by as bright and frail a thread 

As Lucy's golden hair, — 
For the leash that bound these monsters 
dread 

Was but of gossamer. 
Each Maiden's short barbaric vest 
Left all unclosed the knee and breast, 

And limbs of shapely jet ; 
White was their vest and turban's fold, 
On arms and ankles rings of gold 

In savage pomp were set ; 
A quiver on their shoulders lay, 
And in their hand an assagay. 
Such and so silent stood they there, 

That Roland wellnigh hoped 
He saw a band of statues rare, 
Station'd the gazer's soul to scare ; 

But when the wicket oped, 
Each grisly beast 'gan upward draw, 
Roll'd his grim eye, and spread his claw, 
Scented the air, and lick'd his jaw ; 
While these weird maids, in Moorish 

tongue, 
A wild and dismal warning sung. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMA1N. 



25 1 



xx r. 
" Rash Adventurer, bear thee back ! 

Dread the spell of Dahomay ! 
Fear the race of Zaharak,* 

Daughters of the burning day ! 
"When the whirlwind's gusts are wheeling, 

Ours it is the dance to braid ; 
Zarah's sands in pillars reeling, 

Join the measure that we tread, 
When the Moon has donn'd her cloak, 

And the stars are red to see, 
Shrill when pipes the sad Siroc, 

Music meet for such as we. 
"Where the shatter'd columns lie, 

Showing Carthage once had been, 
If the wandering Santon's eye 

Our mysterious rites hath seen, — 
Oft he cons the prayer of death, 

To the nations preaches doom, 
'Azrael's brand hath left the sheath ! 

Moslems, think upon the tomb!' 
"Ours the scorpion, ours the snake, 

Ours the hydra of the fen, 
Ours the tiger of the brake, 

All that plague the sons of men. 
Ours the tempest's midnight wrack, 

Pestilence that wastes by day — 
Dread the race of Zaharak ! 

Fear the spell of Dahomay.'" 
xxn. 
Uncouth and strange the accents shrill 

Rung those vaulted roofs among, 
Long it was ere, faint and still, 

Died the far resounding song. 
While yet the distant echoes roll, 
The Warrior communed with his soul. 
" When first I took this venturous quest, 

I swore upon the rood, 
Neither to stop, nor turn, nor rest, 

For evil or for good. 
My forward path too well I ween, 
Lies yonder fearful ranks between ! 
For man unarm'd, 'tis bobtless hope 
With tigers and with fiends to cope — 
Yet, if I turn, what waits me there, 
Save famine dire and fell despair? — 
Other conclusion let me tiy, 
Since, choose howe'er I list, I die. 
Forward, lies faith and knightly fame ; 
Behind, are perjury and shame. 
In life or death I hold my word ! " 
With that he drew his trusty sword, 
Caught down a banner from the wall, 
And enter'd thus the fearful hall. 



The Arab name of the Great Desert. 



• XXIII. 

On high each wayward Maiden threw 
Her swarthy arm, with wild halloo 1 
On either side a tiger sprung — 
Against the leftward foe he flung 
The ready banner, to engage 
With tangling folds the brutal rage ; 
The right-hand monster in mid air 
He struck so fiercely and so fair, 
Through gullet and through spinal bone, 
The trenchant blade had sheerly gone. 
His grisly brethren ramp'd and yell'd, 
But the slight leash their rage withheld, 
Whilst, 'twixt their ranks, the dangerous 

road 
Firmly, though swift, the champion strode. 
Safe to the gallery's bound he drew, 
Safe pass'd an open portal through ; 
And when against pursuit he flung 
The gate, judge if the echoes rung ! 
Onward his daring course he bore, 
While, mix'd with dying growl and roar, 
Wild jubilee and loud hurra 
Pursued him on his venturous way. 

XXIV. 

" Hurra, hurra ! Our watch is done ! 
We hail once more the tropic sun. 
Pallid beams of northern day, 
Farewell, farewell ! Hurra, hurra ! 
' ' Five hundred years o'er this cold glen 
Hath the pale sun come round agen ; 
Foot of man, till now, hath ne'er 
Dared to cross the Hall of Fear. 

"Warrior! thou, whose dauntless heart 
Gives us from our ward to part, 
Be as strong in future trial, 
Where resistance is denial. 
" Now for Afric's glowing sky, 
Zwenga wide and Atlas high, 

Zaharak and Dahomay! 

Mount the winds ! Hurra, hurra!" 

XXV. 

The wizard song at distance died, 

As if in ether borne astray, 
While through waste halls and chambers 
wide 

The Knight pursued his steady way, 
Till to a lofty dome he came, 
That flash'd with such a brilliant flame, 
As if the wealth of all the world 
Were there in rich confusion hurl'd. 
For here the gold, in sandy heaps, 
With duller earth, incorporate, sleeps; 
Was there in ingots piled, and there 
Coin'd badge of empery it bare ; 



252 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yonder, huge bars of silver lay, 

Dimm'd by the diamond's neighbouring 

ray, 
Like the pale moon in morning day ; 
And in the midst four Maidens stand, 
The daughters of some distant land. 
Their hue was of the dark-red dye, 
That fringes oft a thunder, sky; 
Their hands palmetto baskets bare, 
And cotton fillets bound their hair; 
Slim was their form, their mien was shy, 
To earth they bent the humbled eye, 
Folded their arms, and suppliant kneel'd, 
And thus their proffer'd gifts reveal'd. 

XXVI. 
CHORUS. 

"See the treasures Merlin piled, 
Portion meet for Arthur's child. 
Bathe in Wealth's unbounded stream, 
Wealth that Avarice ne'er could dream ! " 

FIRST MAIDEN. 

"See these clots of virgin gold ! 
Sever'd from the sparry mould, 
Nature's mystic alchemy 
In the mine thus bade them lie ; 
And their orient smile can win 
Kings to stoop, and saints to sin." — 

SECOND MAIDEN. 

' ' See these pearls, that long have slept ; 
These were tears by Naiads wept 
For the loss of Marine!. 
Tritons in the silver shell 
Treasured them, till hard and white 
As the teeth of Amphitrite." — 

THIRD MAIDEN. 

' ' Does a livelier hue delight ? 
Here are rubies blazing bright, 
Here the emerald's fairy green, 
And the topaz glows between ; 
Here their varied hues unite, 
In the changeful chrysolite." — 

FOURTH MAIDEN. 
"Leave these gems of poorer shine, 
Leave them all, and look on mine! 
While their glories I expand, 
Shade thine eyebrows with thy hand. 
Mid-day sun and diamond's blaze 
Blind the rash beholder's gaze." — 

CHORUS. 
' ' Warrior, seize the splendid store ; 
Would 'twere all our mountains borel 
We should ne'er in future story, 
Read, Peru, thy perish' d glory I" 



XXVII. 
Calmly and unconcern'd, the Knight 
Waved aside the treasures bright: — 
"Gentle Maidens, rise, I pray ! 
Bar not thus my destined way. 
Let these boasted brilliant toys 
Braid the hair of girls and boys ! 
Bid your streams of gold expand 
O'er proud London's thirsty land. 
De Vaux of wealth saw never need, 
Save to purvey him arms and steed, 
And all the ore he deign'd to hoard 
Inlays his helm, and hilts his sword." 
Thus gently parting from their hold, 
He left, unmoved, the dome of gold. 

XXVIII. 

And now the morning sun was high, 
De Vaux was weary, faint, and dry; 
When, lo! a plashing sound he hears, 
A gladsome signal that he nears 

Some frolic water-run ; 
And soon he reach' d a court-yard square. 
Where, dancing in the sultry air, 
Toss'd high aloft, a fountain fair 

Was sparkling in the sun. 
On right and left, a fair arcade, 
In long perspective view display'd 
Alleys and bowers, for sun or shade : 

But, full in front, a door, 
Low-brow'd and dark, seem'd as it led 
To the lone dwelling of the dead, 

Whose memory was no more. 



Here stopp'd De Vaux an instant's space, 
To bathe his parched lips and face, 

And mark'd with well-pleased eye, 
Refracted on the fountain stream, 
In rainbow hues the dazzling beam 

Of that gay summer sky. 
His senses felt a mild control, 
Like that which lulls the weary soul, 

From contemplation high 
Relaxing, when the ear receives 
The music that the greenwood leaves 

Make to the breezes' sigh. 

XXX. 

And oft in such a dreamy mood, 
The half-shut eye can frame 

Fair apparitions in the wood, 

As if the nymphs of field and flood 
In gay procession came. 

Are these of such fantastic mould, 

Seen distant down the fair arcade, 

These Maids enlink'd in sister-fold, 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



253 



Who, late at bashful distance staid, 
Now trippingfrom the greenwood shade, 
Nearer the musing champion draw. 
And, in a pause of seeming awe, 

Again stand doubtful now? — 
Ah, that sly pause of witching powers! 
That seems to say, ' ' To please be ours, 

Be yours to tell us how." 
Their hue was of the golden glow 
That suns of Candahar bestow, 
O'er which in slight suffusion flows 
A frequent tinge of paly rose ; 
Their limbs were fashion'd fair and free, 
In nature's justest symmetry ; [graced, 
And, wreath'd with flowers, with odours 
Their raven ringlets reach'd the waist: 
In eastern pomp, its gilding pale 
The hennah lent each shapely nail, 
And the dark sumah gave the eye 
More liquid and more lustrous dye. 
The spotless veil of misty lawn, 
In studied disarrangement, drawn 

The form and bosom o'er, 
To win the eye, or tempt the touch, 
For modesty show'd all too much — 
Too much — yet promised more. 

XXXI. 

"Gentle Knight, a while delay," 

Thus they sung, ' ' thy toilsome way, 

While we pay the duty due 

To our Master and to you. 

Over Avarice, over Fear, 

Love triumphant led thee here ; 

Warrior, list to us, for we 

Are slaves to Love, are friends to thee. 

Though no treasured gems have we, 

To proffer on the bended knee, 

Though we boast nor arm nor heart, 

For the assagay or dart, 

Swains allow each simple girl 

Ruby lip and teeth of pearl ; 

Or, if dangers more you prize, 

Flatterers find them in our eyes. 

" Stay, then, gentle Warrior, stay, 
Rest till evening steal on day ; 
Stay, O, stay ! — in yonder bowers 
We will braid thy locks with flowers, 
Spread the feast and fill the wine, 
Charm thy ear with sounds divine, 
Weave our dances till delight 
Yield to languor, day to night. 

" Then shall she you most approve, 
Sing the lays that best you love, 
Soft thy mossy couch shall spread, 
Watch thy pillow, prop thy head, 



Till the weary night be o'er — 
Gentle Warrior, wouldst thou more? 
Wouldst thou more, fair Warrior, — she 
Is slave to Love and slave to thee." 

XXXII. 

O, do not hold it for a crime 
In the bold hero of my rhyme, 
For Stoic look, 
And meet rebuke, 
He lack'd the heart or time ; 
As round the band of sirens trip, 
He kiss'd one damsel's laughing lip, 
And press'd another's proffer'd hand. 
Spoke to them all in accents bland, 
But broke their magic circle through ; 
" Kind Maids," he said, "adieu, adieu! 
My fate, my fortune, forward lies." 
He said, and vanish'd from their eyes ; 
But, as he dared that darksome way, 
Still heard behind their lovely lay : — 
' ' Fair Flower of Courtesy, depart ! 
Go, where the feelings of the heart 
With the warm pulse in concord move ; 
Go, where Virtue sanctions Love!" 
xxxnr. 

Downward De Vaux through darksome 
ways 
And ruin'd vaults has gone, 

Till issue from their wilder'd maze, 
Or safe retreat, seem'd none, — 

And e'en the dismal path he strays 
Grew worse as he went on. 
For cheerful sun, for living air, 
Foul vapours rise and mine-fires glare, 
Whose fearful light the dangers show'd 
That dogg'd him on that dreadful road. 
Deep pits, and lakes of waters dun, 
They show'd, but show'd not how to shun. 
These scenes of desolate despair, 
These smothering clouds of poison'd air ; 
How gladly had De Vaux exchanged, 
Though 'twere to face yon tigers ranged! 

Nay, soothful bards have said, 
So perilous his state seem'd now, 
He wish'd him under arbour bough 

With Asia's willing maid. 
When, joyful sound ! at distance near 
A trumpet flourished loud and clear, 
And as it ceased, a lofty lay 
Seem'd thus to chide his lagging way. 

xxxiv. 
"Son of Honour, theme of story, 
Think on the reward before ye ! 
Danger, darkness, toil despise ; 
'Tis Ambition bids thee rise. 



254 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



" He that would her heights ascend, 
Many a weary step must wend? 
Hand and foot and knee lie tries; 
Thus Ambition's minions rise. 

*' Lag not now, though rough the way, 
Fortune's mood brooks no delay ; 
Grasp the boon that's spread before ye, 
Monarch's power, and Conqueror's 
glory!" 

It ceased. Advancing on the sound, 
A steep ascent the Wanderer found, 

And then a turret stair : 
Nor climb'd he far its steepy round 

Till fresher blew the air, 
And next a welcome glimpse was given, 
That cheer'd him with the light of heaven. 

At length his toil had won 
A lofty hall with trophies dress'd, 
Where, as to greet imperial guest, 
Four Maidens stood, whose crimson vest 

Was bound with golden zone. 



Of Europe seem'd the damsels all; 
The first a nymph of lively Gaul, 
Whose easy step and laughing eye 
Her borrow 'd air of awe belie ; 

The next a maid of Spain, 
Dark-eyed, dark-hair'd, sedate, yet bold ; 
White ivory skin and tress of gold, 
Her shy and bashful comrade told 

For daughter of Almaine. 
These maidens bore a royal robe, 
With crown, with sceptre, and with globe, 

Emblems of empery ; 
The fourth a space behind them stood, 
And leant upon a harp, in mood 

Of minstrel ecstasy. 
Of merry England she, in dress 
Like ancient British Druidess. 
Her hair an azure fillet bound, 
Her graceful vesture swept the ground, 

And, in her hand display'd, 
A crown did that fourth Maiden hold, 
But unadorn'd with gems and gold, 

Of glossy laurel made. 

xxxvi. 

At once to brave De Vaux knelt down 
These foremost Maidens three, 

And proffer'd sceptre, robe, and crown, 
Liegedom and seignorie, 

O'er many a region wide and fair, 

Destined, they said, for Arthur's heir; 
But homage would he none : — 



"Rather," he said, "DeVaux would ride, 

A Warden of the Border-side, 

In plate and mail, than, robed in pride, 

A monarch's empire own ; 
Rather, far rather, would he be 
A free-born knight of England free, 

Than sit on Despot's throne." 
So pass'd he on, when that fourth Maid, 

As starting from a trance, 
Upon the harp her finger laid ; 
Her magic touch the chords obey'd, 

Their soul awaked at once ! 

SONG OF THE FOURTH MAIDEN. 

"Quake to your foundations deep, 
Stately Towers, and Banner'd Keep, 
Bid your vaulted echoes moan, 
As the dreaded step they own.* 

" Fiends, that wait on Merlin's spell, 
Here the foot-fall ! mark it well! 
Spread your dusty wings abroad, 
Boune ye for your homeward road ! 
" It is His, the first who e'er 
Dared the dismal Hall of Fear ; 
His, who hath the snares defied 
Spread by Pleasure, Wealth, and Pride. 
"Quake to your foundations deep, 
Bastion huge, and Turret steep ! 
Tremble, Keep ! and totter, Tower ! 
This is Gyneth's waking hour." 

XXXVII. 

Thus while she sung, the venturous Knight 
Has reach' d a bower, where milder light 

Through crimson curtains fell ; 
Such soften'd shade the hill receives, 
Her purple veil when twilight leaves 

Upon its western swell. 
That bower, the gazer to bewitch, 
Hath wondrous store of rare and rich 

As e'er was seen with eye ; 
For there by magic skill, I wis, 
Form of each thing that living is 

Was limn'd in proper dye. 
All seem'd to sleep — the timid hare 
On form, the stag upon his lair, 
The eagle in her eyrie fair 

Between the earth and sky. 
But what of pictured rich and rare' 
Could win De Vaux's eye-glance, where, 
Deep slumbering in the fatal chair, 

He saw King Arthur's child ! 
Doubt, and anger, and dismay, 
From her brow had pass'd away, 
Forgot was that fell tourney-day, 

For, as she slept, she smiled: 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



255 



It seem'd, that the repentant Seer 
'Her sleep of many a hundred year 

With gentle dreams beguiled, 
xxxvm. 
That form of maiden loveliness, 

'Twixt childhood and 'twixt youth, 
That ivory chair, that sylvan dress, 
The arms and ankles bare, express 

Of Lyulph's tale the truth. 
Still upon her garment's hem 
Vanoc's blood made purple gem, 
And the warder of command 
Cumber' d still her sleeping hand ; 
Still her dark locks dishevell'd flow 
From net of pearl o'er breast of snow ; 
And so fair the slumberer seems, 
That De Vaux impeach'd his dreams, ",' 
Vapid all and void of might, 
Hiding half her charms from sight. 
Motionless a while he stands, 
Folds his arms and clasps his hands, 
Trembling in his fitful joy, 
\ Doubtful how he should destroy 

Long-enduring spell ; 
Doubtful, too, when slowly rise 
Dark -fringed lids of Gyneth's eyes, 

What these eyes shall tell. — 
"St. George! St. Mary! can it be, 
That they will kindly look on me !" 

XXXIX. 

Gently, lo ! the Warrior kneels, 
Soft that lovely hand he steals, 
Soft to kiss, and soft to clasp — 
But the warder leaves her grasp ; 

Lightning flashes, rolls the thunder, 
Gyneth startles from her sleep, 
Totters Tower, and trembles Keep, 

Burst the Castle-walls asunder ! 
Fierce and frequent were the shocks, — 

Melt the magic halls away ; 

But beneath their mystic rocks, 

In the arms of bold De Vaux, 

Safe the princess lay ; 
Safe and free from magic power, 
Blushing like the rose's flower 

Opening to the day ; 
And round the Champion's brows were 

bound 
The crown that Druidess had wound, 

Of the green laurel-bay. 
And this was what remain'd of all 
The wealth of each enchanted hall, 

The Garland and the Dame : 
But where should Warrior seek the meed, 
Due to high worth for daring deed, 

Except from Love and Fame ! ** 



CONCLUSION. 



My Lucy, when the Maid is won, 

The Minstrel's task, thou know'st, is done ; 

And to require of bard 
That to his dregs the tale should run, 

Were ordinance too hard. 
Our lovers, briefly be it said, 
Wedded as lovers wont to wed, 

When tale or play is o'er : 
Lived long and blest, loved fond and true, 
And saw a numerous race renew 

The honours that they bore. 
Know, too, that when a pilgrim strays, 
In morning mist or evening maze, 

Along the mountain lone, 
That fairy fortress often mocks 
His gaze upon the castled rocks 

Of the Valley of St. John ; 
But never man since brave De Vaux 

The charmed portal won. 
'Tis now a vain illusive show, 
That melts whene'er the sunbeams glow 

Or the fresh breeze hath blown. 



But see, my love, where far below 
Our lingering wheels are moving slow, 

The whiles, up-gazing still, 
Our menials eye our steepy way, 
Marvelling, perchance, what whim can 

stay 
Our steps, when eve is sinking gray, 

On this gigantic hill. 
So think the vulgar— Life and time 
Ring all their joys in one dull chime 

Of luxury and ease ; 
And, O ! beside these simple knaves, 
How many better born are slaves 

To such coarse joys as these, — 
Dead to the nobler sense that glows 
When Nature's grander scenes unclose ! 
But, Lucy, we will love them yet, 
The mountain's misty coronet, 

The greenwood, and the wold ; 
And love the more, that of their maze 
Adventure high of other days 

By ancient bards is told, 
Bringing, perchance, like my poor tale, 
Some moral truth in fiction's veil: 
Nor love them less, that o'er the hill 
The evening breeze, as now, comes chill — ■ 

My love shall wrap her warm, 
And, fearless of the slippery way, 
While safe she trips the heathy brae, 

Shall hang on Arthur's arm. 



THE 

LORD OF THE ISLES. 

IN SIX CANTOS. 



ADVERTISEMENT TO THE FIRST EDITION. 

The scene of this poem lies, at first, in the Castle of ' Artomish, on the coast oj Argyleshire ; 
and, afterzvards, in the Islands of Skye and A rran, and upon the coast of Ayrshire. Finally, 
it is laid near Stirling, The stoty opens in the spring of the year 1307, when Bruce, who had 
been driven out of Scotland by the English, and the Barons who adhered to that foreigfi in- 
terest, returned from tlte Island of Rachrin, on Hie coast of Ireland, again to assert his claims 
to the Scottish crown. Many of the personages and incidents introduced are of historical 
celebrity. The authorities used are chiefly those of the venerable Lord Hailes, as well entitled 
to be called tlie restorer of Scottish history, as Bruce the restorer of Scottish monarchy ; and 
of A rchdeacon Barbour, a correct edition of whose Metrical History of Robert Bruce will 
soon, I trust, appear under tlte care of my learned friend, the Rev. Dr. Jamieson. 
Abbotsford, \oth December, 1814. 



; INTRODUCTION TO EDITION 1830. 

I could hardly have chosen a subject more popular in Scotland, than anything connected 
with the Bruce's history, unless I had attempted that of Wallace. But I am decidedly of opinion, 
that a popular, or what is called a taking title, though well qualified to ensure the publishers 
against loss, and clear their shelves of the original impression, is rather apt to be hazardous than 
otherwise to the reputation of the author. He who attempts a subject of distinguished popu- 
larity, has not the privilege of awakening the enthusiasm of his audience ; on the contrary, it is 
already awakened, and glows, it may be, more ardently than that of the author himself. In this 
case, the warmth of the author is inferior to that of the party whom he addresses, who has, 
therefore, little chance of being, in Bayes's phrase, ' ' elevated and surprised " by what he has 
thought of with more enthusiasm than the writer. The sense of this risk, joined to the con- 
sciousness of striving against wind and tide, made the task of composing the proposed Poem 
somewhat heavy and hopeless ; but, like the prize-fighter in " As You Like It," I was to wrestle 
for my reputation, and not neglect any advantage. In a most agreeable pleasure-voyage, which 
I have tried to commemorate in the Introduction to the new edition of the " Pirate," I visited, 
in social and friendly company, the coasts and islands of Scotland, and made myself acquainted 
with the localities of which I meant to treat. But this voyage, which was in every other effect 
so delightful, was in its conclusion saddened by one of those strokes of fate which so often 
mingle themselves with our pleasures. The accomplished and excellent person who had re- 
commended to me the subject for "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," and to whom I proposed to 
inscribe what I already suspected might be the- close of my poetical labours, was unexpectedly 
removed from the world, which she seemed only to have visited for purposes of kindness and 
benevolence. It is needless to say how the author's feelings, or the composition of his trifling 
work, were affected by a circumstance which occasioned so many tears and so much sorrow. 
True it is, that "The Lord of the Isles" was concluded, unwillingly and in haste, under the 
painful feeling of one who has a task which must be finished, rather than with the ardour of one 
who endeavours to perform that task well. Although the Poem cannot be said to have made a 
favourable impression on the public, the sale of fifteen thousand copies enabled the author to 
retreat from the field with the honours of war. 

In the mean time, what was necessarily to be considered as a failure, was much reconciled to 
my feelings by the success attending my attempt in another species of composition. " Waverley " 



THE LORD OF TFIE ISLES. 



257 



had, under strict incognito, taken its flight from the press, just before I set out upon the voyage 
already mentioned; it had now made its way to popularity, and the success of that work, and 
the volumes which followed, was sufficient to have satisfied a greater appetite for applause than 
I have at any time possessed.* 

I may as well add in this place, that, being much urged by my intimate friend, now un- 
happily no more, William Erskine, (a Scottish judge, by the title of Lord Kinnedder,) I agreed 
to write the little romantic tale called the " Bridal of Triermain ; " but it was on the condition 
that he should make no serious effort to disown the composition, if report should lay it at his 
door. As he was more than suspected of a taste for poetry, and as I took care, in several 
places, to mix something which might resemble (as far as was in my power) my friend's feeling 
and manner, the train easily caught, and two large editions were sold. A third being called for, 
Lord Kinnedder became unwilling to aid any longer a deception which was going further than 
he expected or desired, and the real author's name was given. Upon another occasion, I sent 
up another of these trifles, which, like schoolboys' kites, served to show how the wind of 
popular taste was setting. The manner was supposed to be that of a rude minstrel or Scald, in 
opposition to the " Bridal of Triermain," which was designed to belong rather to the Italian 
school. 

This new fugitive piece was called " Harold the Dauntless ; " and I am still astonished at my 
having committed the gross error of selecting the very name which Lord Byron had made so 
famous. It encountered rather an odd fate. My ingenious friend, Mr. James Hogg, had 
published, about the same time, a work called the " Poetic Mirror," containing imitations of the 
principal Hving poets. There was in it a very good imitation of my own style, which bore such 
a resemblance to " Harold the Dauntless," that there was no discovering the original from the 
imitation ; and I believe that many who took the trouble of thinking upon the subject, were 
rather of opinion that my ingenious friend was the true, and not the fictitious Simon Pure. 
Since this period, which was in the year 1817, the author has not been an intruder on the public 
by any poetical work of importance. 

w. s. 



Abbotsford, April 1830. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



CANTO FIRST. 



Autumn departs— but still his mantle's 
fold 

Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, f 

Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with 
gold 

Tweed and his tributaries mingle still ; 

Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds 
the rill, 

Yet lingering notes of sylvan music 
swell, 

The deep-toned cushat, and the red- 
breast shrill ; 

And yet some tints of summer splendour 
tell 



* The first edition of Waverley appeared in 
July 1814. 

t The Pavilion, the residence of Lord 
Somerville, situated on the Tweed, over against 
Melrose, and in sight of Abbotsford. 



When the broad sun sinks down on Et- 
trick's western fell. 

Autumn departs— from Gala's fields no 

more 
Come rural sounds our kindred banks 

to cheer ; 
Blent with the stream, and gale tha ; 

wafts it o'er, 
No more the distant reaper's mirth we 

hear. 
The last blithe shout hath died upon 

our ear, 
And harvest-home hath hush'd the 

clanging wain, 
On the waste hill no forms of life appear, 
Save where, sad laggard of the autumnal 

train, 
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears 

of scatter'd grain . 
17 



25 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Deem'st thou these* saddened scenes 

have pleasure still, 
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading 

realms to stray, 
To see the heath-flower wither' d on the 

hill, 
To listen to the wood's expiring lay, 
To note the red leaf shivering on the 

spray, 
To mark the last bright tints the moun- 
tain stain, 
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's 

way, 
And moralize on mortal joy and pain? — 
O ! if such scenes thou lovest, scorn not 

the minstrel strain. 

No ! do not scorn, although its hoarser 

note 
Scarce with the cushat's homely song 

can vie, 
Though faint its beauties as the tints 

remote 
That gleam through mist in autumn's 

evening sky, 
And few as leaves that tremble, sear 

and dry, 
When wild November hath his bugle 

wound ; 
Nor mock my toil — a lonely gleaner I, 
Through fields time-wasted, on sad in- 
quest bound, 
Where happier bards of yore have richer 

harvest found. 

So shalt thou list, and haply not un- 
moved, 

To a wild tale of Albyn's warrior day ; 

In distant lands, by the rough West 
reproved, 

Still live some relics of the ancient lay. 

For, when on Coolin's hills the lights 
decay, 

With such the Seer of Skye the eve 
beguiles ; 

'Tis known amid the pathless wastes of 
Reay, 

In Harries known, and in Iona's piles, 
Where rest from mortal coil the Mighty of 
the Isles. 



I. 

"Wake, Maid of Lornl" the Minstrels 

sung. 
Thy rugged halls, Artornish ! rung, 1 



And the dark seas, thy towers that lave, 
Heaved on the beach a softer wave, 
As 'mid the tuneful choir to keep 
The diapason of the Deep. 
Lull'd were the winds on Inninmore, 
And green Loch-Alline's woodland shore, 
As if wild woods and waves had pleasure 
In listing to the lovely measure. 
And ne'er to symphony more sweet 
Gave mountain echoes answer meet, 
Since, met from mainland and from isle, 
Ross, Arran, Hay, and Argyle, 
Each minstrel's tributary lay 
Paid homage to the festal day. 
Dull and dishonour 'd were the bard, 
Worthless of guerdon and regard, 
Deaf to the hope of minstrel fame, 
Or lady's smiles, his noblest aim, 
Who on that morn's resistless call 
Were silent in Artornish hall. 

II. 
" Wake, Maid of Lorn ! " 'twas thus they 

sung, 
And yet more proud the descant rung, 
' ' Wake, Maid of Lorn ! high right is ours, 
To charm dull sleep from Beauty's bowers ; 
Earth, Ocean, Air, have nought so shy 
But owns the power of minstrelsy. 
In Lettermore the timid deer 
Will pause, the harp's wild chime to hear ; 
Rude Heiskar's seal through surges dark 
Will long pursue the minstrel's bark ; = 
To list his notes, the eagle proud 
Will poise him on Ben-Cailliach's cloud ; 

?hen let not Maiden's ear disdain 
he summons of the minstrel train, 
But while our harps vrild music make, 
Edith of Lorn, awake, awake ! 

ill. 
' ' O wake, while Dawn, with dewy shine, 
Wakes Nature's charms to vie with thine 1 
She bids the mottled thrush rejoice 
To mate thy melody of voice ; 
The dew that on the violet lies 
Mocks the dark -lustre of thine eyes ; 
But, Edith, wake, and all we see 
Of sweet and fair shall yield to thee ! " — 
"She comes not yet," gray Ferrand cried ; 
' ' Brethren, let softer spell be tried, 
Those notes prolong' d, that soothing 

theme, 
Which best may mix with Beauty's dream, 
And whisper, with their silvery tone, 
The hope she loves, yet fears to own." 
He spoke, and on the harp-strings died 
7'he strains of flattery and of pride ; 



More soft, more low, more tender fell 
The lay of love he bade them tell. 



"Wake, Maid of Lorn ! the moments fly, 

Which yet that maiden-name allow ; 
Wake, Maiden, wake ! the hour is nigh 

When Love shall claim a plighted vow. 
By Fear, thy bosom's fluttering guest, 

By Hope, that soon shall fears remove, 
We bid thee break the bonds of rest, 

A nd wake thee at the call of Love ! 

"Wake, Edith, wake! in yonder bay 

Lies many a galley gaily mann'd, 
We hear the merry pibrochs play, 

We see the streamers' silken band. 
What Chieftain's praise these pibrochs 
swell, 

What crest is on these banners wove, 
The harp, the minstrel, dare not tell — 

The riddle must be read by Love." 

v. 
Retired her maiden train among, 
Edith of Lorn received the song, 
But tamed the minstrel's pride had been 
That had her cold demeanour seen ; 
For not upon her cheek awoke 
The glow of pride when Flattery spoke, 
Nor could their tenderest numbers bring 
One sigh responsive to the string. 
As vainly had her maidens vied 
In skill to deck the princely bride. 
Her locks, in dark-brown length array'd, 
Cathleen of Ulne, 'twas thine to braid ; 
Young Eva with meet reverence drew 
On the light foot the silken shoe, 
While on the ankle's slender round 
Those strings of pearl fair Bertha wound, 
That, bleach'd Lochryan's depths within, 
Seem'd dusky still on Edith's skin. 
But Einion, of experience old, 
Had weightiest task — the mantle's fold 
In many an artful plait she tied, 
To imow the form it seem'd to hide, 
Till on the floor descending roll'd 
Its waves of crimson blent with gold. 

VI. 

O ! lives there now so cold a maid, 
Who thus in beauty's pomp array'd, 
In beauty's proudest pitch of power, 
And conquest wop — the bridal hour — 
With every charm that wins the heart, 
By Nature given, enhanced by Art, 
Could yet the fair reflection view, 
In the bright mirror pictured true, 



And not one dimple on her cheek 
A tell-tale consciousness bespeak ? 
Lives still such maid ?— Fair damsels, say, 
For further vouches not my lay, 
Save that such lived in Britain's isle, 
When Lorn's bright Edith scorn' d to smile. 

VII. 

But Movag, to whose fostering care 
Proud Lorn had given his daughter fair, 
Morag, who saw a mother's aid 
By all a daughter's love repaid, 
(Strict was that bond — most kind of all — 
Inviolate in Highland hall) — 
Grey Morag sate a space apart, 
In Edith's eyes to read her heart. 
In vain the attendants' fond appeal 
To Morag's skill, to Morag's zeal ; 
She mark'd her child receive their care, 
Cold as the image sculptured fair, 
(Form of some sainted patroness,) 
Which cloister'd maids combine to dress ; 
She mark'd — and knew her nursling's heart 
In the vain pomp took little part. 
Wistful a while she gazed — then press' d 
The maiden to her anxious breast 
In finish'd loveliness — and led 
To where a turret's airy head, 
Slender and steep, and battled round, 
O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound, 3 
Where thwarting tides, with mingled roar, 
Part thy swarth hills from Mdrven's shore. 

VIII. 

"Daughter," she said, "these seas behold, 
Round twice a hundred islands roll'd, 
From Hirt, that hears their northern roar, 
To the green Hay's fertile shore ; 
Or mainland turn, where many a tower 
Owns thy bold brother's feudal power. 
Each on its own dark cape reclined, 
And listening to its own wild wind, 
From where Mingarry, sternly placed, 
O'erawes the woodland and the waste, 
To where Dunstaffnage hears the raging 
Of Connal with his rocks engaging. 
Think'st thou, amid this ample round, 
A single brow but thine has frown'd, 
To sadden this auspicious morn, 
That bids the daughter of high Lorn 
Impledge her spousal faith to wed 
The heir of mighty Somerled ! 4 
Ronald, from many a hero sprung, 
The fair, the valiant, and the young, 
Lord of the Isles, whose lofty name 5 
A thousand bards have given to fame, 
The mate of monarchs, and allied 
On equal terras, with England's pride,— 



■;- 



26o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From chieftain's tower to bondsman's cot, 
Who hoars the tale, and triumphs not? 
The damsel dons her best attire, 
The shepherd lights his beltane fire, 
Joy, joy ! each warder's horn hath sung, 

j : each matin bell hath rung; 
The holy priest says grateful mass, 
Loud shouts each hardy galla-glass, 
No mountain den holds outcast boor, 
Of heart so dull, of soul so poor, 
But he hath hung his task aside, 
And claim'd this morn for holy-tide; 
Vet, empress of this joyful day, 
Edith is sad while all are gay." — 

IX. 

Proud Edith's soul came to her eye, 
Resentment check'd the struggling sigh. 
Her hurrying hand indignant dried 
The burning tears of injured pride — 
' ' Morag, forbear ! or lend thy praise 
To swell yon hireling harpers' lays; 
Make to yon maids thy boast of power, 
That they may waste a wondering hour, 
Telling of banners proudly borne, 
Of pealing bell and bugle-horn, 
Or, theme more dear, of robes of price, 
Crownlets and gauds of rare device. 
But thou, experienced as thou art, 
Think'st thou with these to cheat the heart, 
That, bound in strong affection's chain, 
Looks for return and looks in vain ? 
No ! sum thine Edith's wretched lot 
In these brief words — He loves her not! 



" Debate it not— too long I strove 

To call his cold observance love, 

All blinded by the league that styled 

Edith of Lorn, — while yet a child, 

She tripp'd the heath by Morag's side, — 

The brave Lord Ronald's destined bride. 

Ere yet I saw him, while afar 

His broadsword blazed in Scotland's war, 

Train'd to believe our fates the same, 

My bosom throbb'd when Ronald's name 

Came gracing Fame's heroic tale, 

Like perfume on the summer gale. 

What pilgrim sought our halls, nor told 

Of Ronald's deeds in battle bold? 

Who touch'd the harp to heroes' praise, 

But his achievements swell'd the lays? 

Even Morag — not a tale of fame 

Was hers but closed with Ronald's name. 

He came ! and all that had been told 

Of his high worth seem'd poor and cold, 

Tame, lifeless, void of energy, 

Unjust to Ronald and to me! 



XI. 

"Since then, what thought had Edith's 

heart 
And gave not plighted love its part! — 
And what requital? cold delay — 
Excuse that shunn'd the spousal day. — 
It dawns, and Ronald is not here! — 
Hunts he Bentalla's nimble deer, 
Or loiters he in secret dell 
To bid some lighter love farewell, 
And swear, that though he may not scorn 
A daughter of the House of Lorn, 6 
Yet, when these formal rites are o'er, 
Again they meet, to part no more?" 

XII. 

— "Hush, daughter, hush! thy doubts 

remove, 
More nobly think of Ronald's love. 
Look, where beneath the castle gray 
His fleet unmoor from Aros bay ! 
See'st not each galley's topmast ber.d. 
As on the yards the sails ascend ? 
Hiding the dark-blue land, they rise 
Like the white clouds on April skies ; 
The shouting vassals man the oars, 
Behind them sink Mull's mountain shores, 
Onward their merry course they keep, 
Through whistling breeze and foaming 

deep. 
And mark the headmost, seaward cast, 
Stoop to the freshening gale her mast, 
As if she veil'd its banner'd pride, 
To greet afar her prince's bride ! 
Thy Ronald comes, and while in speed 
His galley mates the flying steed, 
He chides her sloth ! " — Fair Edith sigh'd, 
Blush'd, sadly smiled, and thus replied :-- 

XIII. 

"Sweet thought, but vain! — No, Morag! 

mark, 
Type of his course, yon lonely bark, 
That oft hath shifted helm and sail, 
To win its way against the gale. 
Since peep of morn, my vacant eyes 
Have view'd by fits the course she tries ; 
Now, though the darkening scud comes on, 
And dawn's fair promises be gone, 
And though the weary crew may see 
Our sheltering haven on their lee, 
Still closer to the rising wind 
They strive her shiveringsail to bind , 
Still nearer to the shelves' dread verge 
At every tack their course they urge, 
As if they fear'd Artornish more 
Than adverse winds and breakers' roar. 



Sooih spoke the maid . — Amid the tide 
The skiff she mark'd lay tossing sore, 
And shifted oft her stooping side, 
In weary tack from shore to shore. 
Yet on her destined course no more 

She gain'd, of forward way, 
Than what a minstrel may compare 
To the poor meed which peasants share, 

Who toil the livelong day ; 
And such the risk her pilot braves, 

That oft, before she wore, 
Her bowsprit kiss'd the broken waves, 
Where in white foam the ocean raves 

Upon the shelving shore. 
Yet, to their destined purpose true, 
Undaunted toild her hardy crew, 

Nor look'd where shelter lay, 
Nor for Artornish Castle drew, 

Nor steer'd for Aros bay. 

XV. 

Thus while they strove with wind and seas, 
Borne onward by the willing breeze, 

Lord Ronald's fleet swept by, 
Streamer'd with silk, and trick'd with gold, 
Mann'd with the noble and the bold 

Of Island chivalry. 
Around their prows the ocean roars, 
And chafes beneath their thousand oars, 

Yet bears them on their way ; 
So chafes the war-horse in his might, 
That fieldward bears some valiant knight, 
Champs, till both bit and boss are white, 

But, foaming, must obey. 
On each gay deck they might behold 
Lances of steel and crests of gold, 
And hauberks with their burnish'd fold, 

That shimmer'd fair and free ; 
And each proud galley, as she pass'd, 
To the wild cadence of the blast 

Gave wilder minstrelsy. 
Full many a shrill triumphant note 
Saline and Scallastle bade float 

Their misty shores around ; 
And Morven's echoes answer' d well, 
And Duart heard the distant swell 

Come down the darksome Sound. 

XVI. 

So bore they on with mirth and pride, 
And if that labouring bark they spied, 

'Twas with such idle eye 
As nobles cast on lowly boor, 
When, toiling in his task obscure, 

1 i.oy pass him careless by. 
Let them sweep on with heedless eyes ! 
But, had they known what mighty prize 



n that frail vessel lay, 
The famish 'd wolf, that prowls the wold, 
Had scatheless pass'd the unguarded fold, 
Ere, drifting by these galleys bold, 

Unchallenged were her way! 
And thou, Lord Ronald, sweep thou on, 
With mirth, and pride, and minstrel tone ! 
But haclst thou known who sail'd so nigh, 
Far other glance were in thine eye ! 
Far other flush were on thy brow, 
That, shaded by the bonnet, now 
Assumes but ill the blithesome cheer 
Of bridegroom when the bride is near ! 

XVII. 
Yes, sweep they on ! — We will not leave, 
For them that triumph, those who grieve. 

With that armada gay 
Be laughter loud and jocund shout, 
And bards to cheer the wassail route, 

With tale, romance, and lay ; 
And of wild mirth each clamorous art 
Which, if it cannot cheer the heart, 
May stupefy and stun its smart, 

For one loud busy day. 
Yes, sweep they on ! — But with that skiff 

Abides the minstrel tale, 
Where there was dread of surge and cliff, 
Labour that strain'd each sinew siiff, 

And one sad Maiden's wail. 
XVIII. 
All day with fruitless strife they toil'd, 
With eve the ebbing currents boil'd 

More fierce from strait and lake ; 
And midway through the channel met 
Conflicting tides that foam and fret, 
And high their mingled billows jet, 
As spears, that, in the battle set, 

Spring upward as they break. 
Then, too, the lights of eve were past, 
And louder sung the western blast 

On rocks of Inninmore ; 
Rent was the sail, and strain'd the mast, 
And many a leak was gaping fast, 
And the pale steersman stood aghast, 

And gave the conflict o'er. 

XIX. 

'Twas then that One, whose lofty look 
Nor labour dull'd nor terror shook, 

Thus to the Leader spoke ; — 
" Brother, how hopest thou to abide 
The fury of this wilder' d tide, 
Or how avoid the rock's rude side, 

Until the day has broke ? 
Didst thou not mark the vessel reel, 
With quivering planks, and groaning keel, 

At the last billow's shock? 



262 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet how of better counsel tell, 
Though here thou see'st poor Isabel 

Half dead with want and fear; 
For look on sea, or look on land, 
Or yon dark sky — on every hand 

Despair and death are near. 
For her alone 1 grieve, — on me 
Danger sits light, by land and sea, 

I follow where thou wilt ; 
Either to bide the tempest's lour, 
Or wend to yon unfriendly tower, 
Or rush amid their naval power, 
With war-cry wake their wassail-hour, 

And die with hand on hilt." 



That elder Leader's calm reply 

In steady voice was given, 
"In man's most dark extremity 

Oft succour dawns from Heaven. 
Edward, trim thou the shatter'd sail, 
The helm be mine, and down the gale 

Let our free course be driven ; 
So shall we 'scape the western bay, 
The hostile fleet, the unequal fray, 
So safely hold our vessel's way 

Beneath the Castle wall ; 
For if a hope of safety rest, 
'Tis on the sacred name of guest, 
Who seeks for shelter, storm-distress' d, 

Within a chieftain's hall. 
If not — it best beseems our worth, 
Our name, our right, our lofty birth, 

By noble hands to fall." 

XXI. 

The helm, to his strong arm consign'd, 
Gave the reef d sail to meet the wind, 

And on her alter'd way, 
Fierce bounding, forward sprung the ship, 
Like greyhound starting from the slip 

To seize his flying prey. 
Awaked before the rushing prow, 
The mimic fires of ocean glow, 

Those lightnings of the wave ; ? 
Wild sparkles crest the broken tides, 
And, flashing round, the vessel's sides 

With elvish lustre lave, 
While, far behind, their livid light 
To the dark billows of the night 

A gloomy splendour gave, 
It seems as if old Ocean shakes 
From his dark brow the lucid flakes 

In envious pageantry, 
To match the meteor-light that streaks 

Grim Hecla's midnight sky. 



XXII. 

Nor lack'd they steadier light to keep 
Their course upon the darken'd deep ; — 
Artornish, on her frowning steep 

'Twixt cloud and ocean hung, 
Glanced with a thousand lights of glee, 
And landward far, and far to sea, 

Her festal radiance flung. 
By that blithe beacon-light they steer'd, 

Whose lustre mingled well 
With the pale beam that now appear'd, 
As the cold moon her head, uprear'd 

Above the eastern fell. 

xxm. 
Thus guided, on their course they bore, 
Until they near'd the mainland shore, 
When frequent on the hollow blast 
Wild shouts of merriment were cast, 
And wind and wave and sea-birds' cry 
With wassail sounds in concert vie, 
Like funeral shrieks with revelry, 

Or like the battle-shout 
By peasants heard from cliffs on high, 
When Triumph, Rage, and Agony, 

Madden the fight and route. 
Now nearer yet, through mist and storm 
Dimly arose the Castle's form, 

And deepen'd shadow made, 
Far lengthen' d on the main below, 
Where, dancing in reflected glow, 

A hundred torches play'd, 
Spangling the wave with lights as vain 
As pleasures in this vale of pain, 

That dazzle as they fade. 

XXIV. 

Beneath the Castle's sheltering lee, 
They staid their course in quiet sea. 
Hewn in the rock, a passage there 
Sought the dark fortress by a stair, 

So straight, so high, so steep, 
With peasant's staff one valiant hand 
Might well the dizzy pass have mann'd, 
'Gainst hundreds arm'd with spear and 
brand, 

And plunged them in the deep. 
His bugle then the helmsman wound ; 
Loud answer'd every echo round, 

From turret, rock, and bay, 
The postern's hinges crash and groan, 
And soon the warder's cresset shone 
On those rude steps of slippery stone, 

To light the upward way. 
" Thrice welcome, holy Sire ! " he said ; 
' ' Full long the spousal train have staid, 

And, vex'd at thy delay, 



Fear'd lest, amidst these wildering seas, 
The darksome night and freshening breeze 
Had driven thy bark astray." — 

XXV. 

"Warder," the younger stranger said, 
"Thine erring guess some mirth had made 
In mirthful hour; but nights like these, 
When the rough winds wake western seas, 
Brook not of glee. We crave some aid 
And needful shelter for this maid 

Until the break of day ; 
For, to ourselves, the deck's rude plank 
Is easy as the mossy bank 

That's breath'd upon by May. 
And for our storm-toss'd skiff we seek 
Short shelter in this leeward creek, 
Prompt when the dawn the east shall 
streak 

Again to bear away." — 
Answer'd the Warder, — " In what name 
Assert ye hospitable claim ? 

Whence come, or whither bound? 
Hath Erin seen your parting sails? 
Or come ye on Norweyan gales? 
And seek ye England's fertile vales, 

Or Scotland's mountain ground?" — 

XXVI. 

" Warriors — for other title none 
For some brief space we list to own, 
Bound by a vow — warriors are we ; 
In strife by land, and storm by sea, 

We have been known to fame ; 
And these brief words have import dear, 
When sounded in a noble ear, 
To harbour safe, and friendly cheer, 

That gives us rightful claim. 
Grant us the trivial boon we seek, 
And we in other realms will speak 

Fair of your courtesy ; 
Deny — and be your niggard Hold 
Scorn'd by the noble and the bold, 
Shunn'd by the pilgrim on the wold, 

And wanderer on the lea ! " — 

XXVII. 

" Bold stranger, no — 'gainst claim like 

thine, 
No bolt revolves by hand of mine, 
Though urged in tone that more express'd 
A monarch than a suppliant guest. 
Be what ye will, Artornish Hall 
On this glad eve is free to all. 
Though ye had drawn a hostile sword 
'Gainst our ally, great England's Lord, 
Or mail upon your shoulders borne, 
To battle with the Lord of Lorn, 



Or, outlaw'd, dwelt by greenwood tree 
With the fierce Knight of Ellerslie,* 
Or aided even the murderous strife, 
When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide The Bruce, 
This night had been a term of truce. — 
Ho, vassals ! give these guests your care, 
And show the narrow postern stair." 

XXVIII. 

To land these two bold brethren leapt, 
(The weary crew their vessel kept,) 
And, lighted by the torches' flare, 
That seaward flung their smoky glare, 
The younger knight that maiden bare 

Half lifeless up the rock ; 
On his strong shoulder lean'd her head, 
And down her long dark tresses shed, 
As the wild vine in tendrils spread, 

Droops from the mountain oak. 
Him follow'd close that elder Lord, 
And in his hand a sheathed sword, 

Such as few arms could wield ; 
But when he boun'd him to such task, 
Well could it cleave the strongest casque, 

And rend the surest shield. 

XXIX. 

The raised portcullis" arch they pass, 
The wicket with its bars of brass, 

The entrance long and low, 
Flank'd at each turn by loop-holes strait, 
Where bowmen might in ambush wait, 
(If force or fraud should burst the gate,) 

To gall an entering foe. 
But every jealous post of ward 
Was now defenceless and unbarr'd, 

And all the passage free 
To one low-brow'd and vaulted room, 
Where squire and yeoman, page and 
groom, 

Plied their loud revelry. 

XXX. 

And " Rest ye here," the Warder bade, 
"Till to our Lord your suit is said. — 
And, comrades, gaze not on the maid, 
And on these men who ask our aid, 

As if ye ne'er had seen 
A damsel tired of midnight bark^ 
Or wanderers of a moulding stark, 

And bearing martial mien." 
But not for Eachin's reproof 
Would page or vassal stand aloof, 

But crowded on to stare, 
As men of courtesy untaught, 
Till fiery Edward roughly caught, 



* Sir William Wallace. 



264 



SCO TVS POETICAL WORKS. 



From one the foremost there, 
His chequer'd plaid, and in its shroud, 
To hide her from the vulgar crowd, 

Involved his sister fair. 
His brother, as the clansman bent 
His sullen brow in discontent, 

Made brief and stern excuse; — 
" Vassal, were thine the cloak of pall 
That decks thy Lord in bridal hall, 

'Twere honour d by her use." 



Proud was his tone, but calm ; his eye 

Had that compelling dignity, 

His mien that bearing haught and high, 

Which common spirits fear ! 
Needed nor word nor signal more, 
Nod, wink, and laughter, all were o'er ; 
Upon each other back they bore, 

And gazed like startled deer. 
But now appear'd the Seneschal, 
Commission' d by his Lord to call 
The strangers to the Baron's hall, 
Where feasted fair and free 
That Island Prince in nuptial tide, 
With Edith there his lovely bride, 
And her bold brother by her side, 
And many a chief, the flower and pride 
Of Western land and sea. 

Here pause we, gentles, for a space ; 
And, if our tale hath won your grace, 
Grant us brief patience, and again 
We will renew the minstrel strain. 



CANTO SECOND. 

Fill the bright goblet, spread the 

festive board ! 
Summon the gay, the noble, and the 

fair ! 
Through the loud hall in joyous concert 

pour'd, 
Let mirth and music sound the dirge of 

Care! 
But ask thou not if Happiness be there, 
If the loud laugh disguise convulsive 

throe, 
Or if the brow the heart's true livery 

wear; 
Lift not the festal mask!— enough to 

know, 
No scene of mortal life but teems with 

mortal woe. 



With beakers' clang, with harpers' lay, 
With all that olden time deem'd gay, 
The Island Chieftain feasted high ; 
But there was in his troubled eye 
A gloomy fire, and on his brow, 
Now sudden flush'd, and faded now, 
Emotions such as draw their birth 
From deeper source than festal mirth. 
By fits he paused, and harper's strain 
And jester's tale went round in vain, 
Or fell but on his idle ear 
Like distant sounds which dreamers hear. 
Then would he rouse him, and employ 
Each art to aid the clamorous joy, 

And call for pledge and lay, 
And, for brief space, of all the crowd, 
As he was loudest of the loud, 

Seem gayest of the gay. 
in. 
Yet nought amiss the bridal throng 
Mark'd in brief mirth, or musing long ; 
The vacant brow, the unlistening ear, 
They gave to thoughts of raptures near, 
And his fierce starts of sudden glee 
j Seem'd bursts of bridegroom's ecstasy. 
Nor thus alone misjudged the crowd, 
Since lofty Lorn, suspicious, proud, 
And jealous of his honour'd line, 
And that keen knight, De Argentine, 8 
(From England sent on errand high, 
The western league more firm to tie,) 
Both deem'd in Ronald's mood to find 
A lover's transport-troubled mind. 
But one sad heart, one tearful eye, 
Pierced deeper through the mystery, 
And watch'd, with agony and fear, 
Her wayward bridegroom's varied cheer. 

IV. 

She watch'd — yet fear'd to meet his glance, 
And he shunn'd hers ; — till when by chance 
They met, the point of foeman's lance 

Had given a milder pang ! 
Beneath the intolerable smart 
He writhed — then sternly mann'd his 

heart 
To play his hard but destined part, 

And from the table sprang. 
" Fill me the mighty cup!" he said, 
'' Erst own'd by royal Somerled : 9 
Fill it, till on the studded brim 
In burning gold the bubbles swim, 
And every gem of varied shine 
Glow doubly bright in rosy wine ! 

To you, brave lord, and brother mine, 
Of Lorn, this pledge I drink — 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



265 



The union of Our House with thine, 
By this fair bridal-link!" — 

v. 

" Let it pass round ! " quoth he of Lorn, 
"And in good time — that winded horn 

Must of the Abbot tell ; 
The laggard monk is come at last." 
Lord Ronald heard the bugle-blast, 
And on the floor at random cast, 

The untasted goblet fell. 
But when the warder in his ear 
Tells other news, his blither cheer 

Returns like sun of May, 
When through a thunder-cloud it beams ! — 
Lord of two hundred isles, he seems 

As glad of brief delay, 
As some poor criminal might feel, 
When, from the gibbet or the wheel, 

Respited for a day. 

VI. 

" Brother of Lorn," with hurried voice 
He said, " and you, fair lords, rejoice! 

Here, to augment our glee, 
Come wandering knights from travel far, 
Well proved, they say, in strife of war, 

And tempest on the sea. — 
Ho ! give them at your board such place 
As best their presences may grace, 

And bid them welcome free ! " 
With solemn step, and silver wand, 
The Seneschal the presence scann'd 
Of these strange guests ; and well he knew 
How to assign their rank its due ; 

For though the costly furs 
That erst had deck'd their caps were torn, 
And their gay robes were over- worn, 

And soil'd their gilded spurs, 
Yet such a high commanding grace 
Was in their mien and in their face, 
As suited best the princely dais,* 

And royal canopy ; 
And there he marshall'd them their place, 

First of that company. 

VII. 

Then lords and ladies spake aside, 
And angry looks the error chide, 
That gave to guests unnamed, unknown, 
A place so near their prince's throne ; 

But Owen Erraught said, 
" For forty years a seneschal, 
To marshal guests in bower and hall 

Has been my honour'd trade. 

* Dais — the great hall-table — elevated a step 
or two above the rest of the room. 



Worship and birth to me are known, 
By look, by bearing, and by tone, 
Not by furr'd robe or broider'd zone ; 

And 'gainst an oaken bough 
I'll gage my silver wand of state, 
That these three strangers oft have sate 

In higher place than now." — 

VIII. 

" I, too," the aged Ferrand said, 
' ' Am qualified by minstrel trade 

Of rank and place to tell ; — 
Mark'd ye the younger stranger's eye, 
My mates, how quick, how keen, how high, 

How fierce its flashes fell, 
Glancing among the noble rout 
As if to seek the noblest out, 
Because the owner might not brook 
On any save his peers to look ? 

And yet it moves me more, 
That steady, calm, majestic brow, 
With which the elder chief even now 

Scann'd the gay presence o'er, 
Like being of superior kind, 
In whose high-toned impartial mind 
Degrees of mortal rank and state 
Seem objects of indifferent weight. 

The lady too — though closely tied 
The mantle veil both face and eye, 

Her motions' grace it could not hide, 
Nor could her form's fair symmetry. 

IX. 

Suspicious doubt and lordly scorn 
Lour'd on the haughty front of Lorn. 
From underneath his brows of pride, 
The stranger guests he sternly eyed, 
And whisper'd closely what the ear 
Of Argentine alone might hear ; 

Then question'd, high and brief, 
If, in their voyage, aught (hey knew 
Of the rebellious Scottish crew, 
Who to Rath-Erin's shelter drew, 

With Carrick's outlaw' d Chief! I0 
And if, their winter's exile o'er, 
They harbour' d still by Ulster's shore, 
Or launch'd their galleys on the main, 
1 o vex their native land again ? 

x. 

That younger stranger, fierce and high, 
At once confronts the Chieftain's eye 

With look of equal scorn ; — 
" Of rebels have we nought to show ; 
But if of Royal Bruce thou'dst know, 

I warn thee he has sworn, 
Ere thrice three days shall come and go, 
His banner Scottish winds shall blow, 



266 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Despite efteh mean or mighty foe, 
From England's every bill and bow, 

To \llaster of Lorn." 
Kindled the mountain Chieftain's ire, 
Bui Ronald quench 'd the rising fire: 
" Brother, it better suits the time 
To chase the night with Frrrand's rhyme, 
Than wake, 'midst mirth and wine, the jars 
That flow from these unhappy wars." — 
" Content," said Lorn ; and spoke apart 
With Ferrand, master of his art, 

Then whisper' d Argentine, — 
" The lay I named will carry smart 
To these bold strangers' haughty heart, 

If right this guess of mine." 
He ceased, and it was silence all, 
Until the minstrel waked the hall. 

XI. 

THE BROOCH OF LORN. 11 
' ' Whence the brooch of burning gold, 
That clasps the Chieftain's mantle-fold, 
Wrought and chased with rare device, 
Studded fair with gems of price, 
On the varied tartans beaming, 
As, through night's pale rainbow gleaming, 
Fainter now, now seen afar, 
Fitful shines the northern star? 

' ' Gem ! ne'er wrought on Highland 

mountain, 
Did the fairy of the fountain, 
Or the mermaid of the wave, 
Frame thee in some coral cave ? 
Did, in Iceland's darksome mine, 
Dwarfs swart hands thy metal twine ? 
Or, mortal-moulded, comest thou here, 
From England's love, or France's fear ? 

XII. 
SONG CONTINUED. 

" No!— thy splendours nothing tell 
Foreign art or faery spell. 
Moulded thou for monarch's use, 
By the overweening Bruce, 
When the royal robe he tied 
O'er a heart of wrath and pride ; 
Thence in triumph wert thou torn, 
By the victor hand of Lorn ! 
" When the gem was won and lost, 
Widely was the war-cry toss'd ! 
Rung aloud Bendourish fell, 
Answer'd Douchart's sounding dell, 
Fled the deer from wild Teyndrum, 
When the homicide, o'ercome, 
Hardly 'scaped, with scathe and scorn, 
Left the pledge with conquering Lorn I 



SONG CONCLUDED. 

" Vain was then the Douglas' brand, 
Vain the Campbell's vaunted hand, 
Vain Kirkpa trick's bloody dirk, 
Making sure of murder's work : ™ 
Barendown fled fast away, 
Fled the fiery De la Haye,^ 
When this brooch, triumphant borne, 
Beam'd upon the breast of Lorn. 

' ' Farthest fled its former Lord, 
Left his men to brand and cord, 
Bloody brand of Highland steel, 
English gibbet, axe, and wheel. 
Let him fly from coast to coast, 
Dogg'd by Comyn's vengeful ghost, 
While his spoils, in triumph worn, 
Long shall grace victorious Lorn ! " 

XIV. 

As glares the tiger on his foes, 
Hemm'd in by hunters, spears, and bows, 
And, ere he bounds upon the ring, 
Selects the object of his spring, — 
Now on the Bard, now on his Lord, 
So Edward glared and grasp'd his sword — 
But stern his brother spoke, — " Be still. 
What ! art thou yet so wild of will, 
After high deeds and sufferings long, 
To chafe thee for a menial's song? — 
Well hast thou framed, Old Man, thy 

strains, 
To praise the hand that pays thy pains ! 
Yet something might thy song have told 
Of Lorn's three vassals, true and bold. 
Who rent their Lord from Bruce's hold, 
As underneath his knee he lay, 
And died to save him in the fray. 
I've heard the Bruce's cloak and clasp 
Was clench'd within their dying grasp, 
What time a hundred foemen more 
Rush'd in, and back the victor bore, 
Long after Lorn had left the strife, 
Full glad to 'scape with limb and life. — 
Enough of this — And, Minstrel, hold, 
As minstrel hire, this chain of gold, 
For future lays a fair excuse, 
To speak more nobly of the Bruce." 

XV. 

" Now, by Columba's shrine, I swear, 
And every saint that's buried there, 
'Tis he himself! " Lorn sternly cries, 
" And for my kinsman's death he dies." 
As loudly Ronald calls, — " Forbear ! 
Not in my sight while brand I wear, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



267 



O'ermatched by odds, shall warrior fall, 
Or blood of stranger stain my hall ! 
This ancient fortress of my race 
Shall be misfortune's resting-place, 
Shelter and shield of the distress'd, 
No slaughter - house for shipwreck'd 

guest."— 
"Talk not to me," fierce Lorn replied, 
1 ' Of odds or match ! — when Comyn died, 
Three daggers clash'd within his side ! 
Talk not to me of sheltering hall, 
The Church of God saw Comyn fall ! 
On God's own altar stream d his blood, 
While o'er my prostrate kinsman stood 
The ruthless murderer— e'en as now — 
With armed hand and scornful brow ! — 
Up, all who love me ! blow on blow ! 
And lay the outlaw'd felons low ! " 

XVI. 
Then up sprang many a mainland Lord, 
Obedient to their Chieftain's word. 
Barcaldine's arm is high in air, 
And Kinloch-AUine's blade is bare, 
Black Murthok's dirk has left its sheath, 
And clench'd is Dermid's hand of death. 
Their mutter'd threats of vengeance swell 
Into a wild and warlike yell ; 
Onward they press with weapons high, 
The affrighted females shriek and fly, 
And, Scotland, then thy brightest ray 
Had darken'd ere its noon of day, — 
But every chief of birth and fame, 
That from the Isles of Ocean came, 
At Ronald's side that hour withstood 
Fierce Lorn's relentless thirst for blood. 

XVII. 
Brave Torquil from Dunvegan high, 
Lord of the misty hills of Skye,' 
Mac-Niel, wild Bara's ancient thane, 
Duart, of bold Clan-Gillian's strain, 
Fergus, of Canna's castled bay, 
Mac-Duffith, Lord of Colonsay, 
Soon as they saw the broadswords glance, 
With ready weapons rose at once, 
More prompt, that many an ancient feud, 
Full oft suppress'd, full oft renew'd, 
Glow'd 'twixt the chieftains of Argyle, 
And many a lord of ocean's isle. 
Wild was the scene — each sword was bare, 
Back stream'd each chieftain's shaggy hair, 
In gloomy opposition set, 
Eyes, hands, and brandish'd weapons met; 
Blue gleaming o'er the social board, 
Flash' d to the torches many a sword ; 
And soon those bridal lights may shine 
On purple blood for rosy wine. 



XVIII. 
While thus for blows and death prepared, 
Each heart was up, each weapon bared, 
Each foot advanced, — a surly pause 
Still reverenced hospitable laws. 
All menaced violence, but alike 
Reluctant each the first to strike, 
(For aye accursed in minstrel line 
Is he who brawls 'mid song and wine,) 
And, match'd in numbers and in might, 
Doubtful and desperate seem'd the fight. 
Thus threat and murmur died away, 
Till on the crowded hall there lay 
Such silence, as the deadly still, 
Ere bursts the thunder on the hill. 
With blade advanced, each Chieftain bold 
Show'd like the Sworder's form of old, 
As wanting still the torch of life, 
To wake the 'marble into strife. 



That awful pause the stranger maid, 
And Edith, seized to pray for aid. 
As to De Argentine she clung, 
Away her veil the stranger flung, 
And, lovely 'mid her wild despair, 
Fast stream'd her eyes, wide flow'd her hair. 
"O thou, of knighthood once the flower, 
Sure refuge in distressful hour, 
Thou, who in Judah well hast fought 
For our dear faith, and oft hast sought 
Renown in knightly exercise, 
When this poor hand has dealt the prize, 
Say, can thy soul of honour brook 
On the unequal strife to look, 
When, butcher'd thus in peaceful hall, 
Those once thy friends, my brethren, fall ! ' 
To Argentine she turn'd her word, 
But her eye sought the Island Lord. 
A flush like evening's setting flame 
Glow'd on his cheek ; his hardy frame, 
As with a brief convulsion, shook : 
With hurried voice and eager look, — 
"Fear not," he said, "my Isabel! 
What said I— Edith !— all is well- 
Nay, fear not — I will well provide 
The safety of my lovely bride — 
My bride?" but there the accents clung 
In tremor to his faltering tongue. 

xx. . 
Now rose De Argentine, to claim 
The prisoners in his sovereign's name, 
To England's crown, who, vassals sworn, 
'Gainst their liege lord had weapon borne— 
(Such speech, I ween, was but to hide 
His care their safety to provide ; 



268 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



For knight more true in thought and deed 
Than Argentine ne'er spurr'd a steed) — 
And Ronald, who his meaning guess'd, 
Seem d half to sanction the request. 
This purpose fiery Torquil broke : — 
"Somewhat we've heard of England's 

yoke," 
He said, "and, in our islands, Fame 
Hath whisper' d of a lawful claim, 
That calls the Bruce fair Scotland's Lord, 
Though dispossess'd by foreign sword. 
This craves reflection — but though right 
And just the charge of England's Knight, 
Let England's crown her rebels seize 
Where she has power ; — in towers like these, 
'Midst Scottish Chieftains summon'd here 
To bridal mirth and bridal cheer, 
Be sure, with no consent of mine, 
Shall either Lorn or Argentine 
With chains or violence, in our sight, 
Oppress a brave and banish' d Knight." 

XXI. 
Then waked the wild debate again, 
With brawling threat and clamour vain. 
Vassals and menials, thronging in, 
Lent their brute rage to swell the din ; 
When, far and wide, a bugle-clang 
From the dark ocean upward rang. 

" The Abbot conies!" they cry at once, 
" The holy man, whose favour'd glance 

Hath sainted visions known ; 
Angels have met him on the way, 
Beside the blessed martyrs' bay, 

And by Columba's stone. 
His monks have heard their hymnings 

high 

Sound from the summit of Dun-Y, 

To cheer his penance lone, 

When at each cross, on girth and wold, 

(Their number thrice a hundred-fold,) 

His prayer he made, his beads he told, 

With Aves many a one — 
He comes our feuds to reconcile, 
A sainted man from' sainted isle ; 
We will his holy doom abide, 
The Abbot shall our strife decide." 

XXII. 

Scarcely this fair accord was o'er, 
When through the wide revolving door 

The black-stoled brethren wind ; 
Twelve sandall'd monks, who relics bore, 
With many a torch-bearer before, 

And many a cross behind, 
Then sunk each fierce uplifted hand, 
And dagger bright and flashing brand 



Dropp'd swiftly at the sight ; 
They vanish'd from the Churchman's eye, 
As shooting stars, that glance and die, 

Dart from the vault of night. 

XXIII. 

The Abbot on the threshold stood, 
And in his hand the holy rood ; 
Back on his shoulders flow'd his hood, 

The torch's glaring ray 
Show'd, in its red and flashing light, 
His wither'd cheek and amice white, 
His blue eye glistening cold and bright, 

His tresses scant and gray. 
"Fair Lords," he said, " Our Lady's love, 
And peace be with you from above, 

And Benedicite! 
— But what means this? no peaceis here !— 
Do dirks unsheathed suit ondal cheer? 

Or are these naked brands 
A seemly show for Churchman's sight, 
When he comes summon'd to unite 

Betrothed hearts and hands?" 

XXIV. 

Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal, 
Proud Lorn first answer'd the appeal ; — 

"Thou comest, O holy Man, 
True sons of blessed Church to greet, 
But little deeming here to meet 

A wretch, beneath the ban 
Of Pope and Church, for murder done 
Even on the sacred altar-stone ! — 
Well mayest thou wonder we should know 
Such miscreant here, nor lay him low, 
Or dream of greeting, peace, or truce, 
With excommunicated Bruce ! 
Yet well I grant, to end debate, 
Thy sainted voice decide his fate." 

XXV. 

Then Ronald pled the stranger's cause, 
And knighthood's oath and honour's laws; 
And Isabel, on bended knee, 
Brought pray'rs and tears to back the plea ; 
And Edith lent her generous aid, 
And wept, and Lorn for mercy pray'd. 
" Hence," heexclaim'd, "degenerate maid! 
Was't not enough to Ronald's bower 
I brought thee, like a paramour, ^ 
Or bond-maid at her master's gate, 
His careless cold approach to wait? — 
But the bold Lord of Cumberland, 
The gallant Clifford, seeks thy hand ; 
His it shall be — Nay, no reply ! 
Hence ! till those rebel eyes be dry." 
With grief the Abbot heard and saw, 
Yet nought relax'd his brow of awe. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



269 



Then Argentine, in England's name, 
So highly urged his sovereign's claim, 
He waked a spark, that, long suppress'd, 
Had smoulder'd in Lord Ronald's breast; 
And now, as from the flint the fire, 
Flash'd forth at once his generous ire. 
" Enough of noble blood," he said, 
' ' By English Edward had been shed, 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of 

green, 1 5 
And done to death by felon hand, 
For guarding well his father's land. 
Where's Nigel Bruce ? and De la Haye, 
And valiant Seton — where are they ? 
Where Somerville, the kind and free? 
And Fraser, flower of chivalry ? 
Have they not been on gibbet bound, 
Their quarters flung to hawk and hound, 
And hold we here a cold debate, 
To yield more victims to their fate? 
What ! can the English Leopard's mood 
Never be gorged with northern blood ? 
Was not the life of \thole shed, 
To soothe the tyrant's sicken'd bed? 16 
And must his word, till dying day, 
Be nought but quarter, hang, and slay ! — 
Thou frown'st, De Argentine, — My gage 
Is prompt to prove the strife I wage." — 



"Nor deem," said stout Dunvegan's 

knight, 
"That thou shalt brave alone the fight ! 
By saints of isle and mainland both, 
By Woden wild, (my grandsire's oath,)* 
Let Rome and England do their worst, 
Howe'er attainted or accursed. 
If Bruce shall e'er find friends again, 
Once more to brave a battle-plain, 
If Douglas couch again his lance, 
Or Randolph dare another chance, 
Old Torquil will not be to lack 
With twice a thousand at his back. — 
Nay, chafe not at my bearing bold, 
Good Abbot ! for thou know'st of old, 
Torquil's rude thought and stubborn will 
Smack of the wild Norwegian still : 
Nor will I barter Freedom's cause 
For England's wealth, or. Rome's ap- 
plause." 



* The Macleods were of Scandinavian de- 
scent — the ancient worshippers of Thor and 
Woden. 



xxvur. 



The Abbot seem'd with eye severe 
The hardy Chieftain's speech to hear ; 
Then on King Robert turn'd the Monk, 
But twice his courage came and sunk, 
Confronted with the hero's look ; 
Twice fell his eye, his accents shook ; 
At length, resolved in tone and brow, 
Sternly he question'd him — "And thou, 
Unhappy ! what hast thou to plead, 
Why I denounce not on thy deed 
That awful doom which canons tell 
Shuts paradise, and opens hell? 
Anathema of power so dread, 
It blends the living with the dead, 
Bids each good angel soar away, 
And every ill one claim his prey ; 
Expels thee from the Church's care, 
And deafens Heaven against thy prayer ; 
Arms every hand against thy life, 
Bans all who aid thee in the strife, 
Nay, each whose succour, cold and scant, 
With meanest alms relieves thy want ; 
Haunts thee while living, — and, when 

dead, 
Dwells on thy yet devoted head, 
Rends Honour's scutcheon from thy 

hearse, 
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse, 
And spurns thy corpse from hallow'd 

ground, 
Flung like vile carrion to the hound ; 
Such is the dire and desperate doom 
For sacrilege, decreed by Rome ; 
And such the well-deserved meed 
Of thine unhallow'd, ruthless deed." 

XXIX. 

' ' Abbot ! " the Bruce replied, ' ' thy charge 

It boots not to dispute at large. 

This much, howe'er, I bid thee know, 

No selfish vengeance dealt the blow, 

For Comyn died his country's foe. 

Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed 

Fulfill'd my soon-repented deed, 

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue 

The dire anathema has rung. 

I only blame mine own wild ire, 

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire. 

Heaven knows my purpose to atone, 

Far as I may, the evil done, 

And hears a penitent's appeal 

From papal curse and prelate's zeal. 

My first and dearest task achieved, 

Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved, 

Shall many a priest in cope and stole 

Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul, 



270 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



While I the blessed cross advance, 
And expiate this unhappy chance 
In Palestine, with sword and lance. 1 ? 
But, while content the Church should 

know 
My conscience owns the debt I owe, 
Unto Ue Argentine and Lorn 
The name of traitor I return, 
Bid them defiance stern and high, 
And give them in their throats the lie! 
These brief words spoke, I speak no more. 
Do what thou wilt ; my shrift is o'er." 

XXX. 

Like man by prodigy amazed, 
Upon the King the Abbot gazed ; 
Then o'er his pallid features glance 
Convulsions of ecstatic trance. 
His breathing came more thick and fast, 
And from his pale blue eyes were cast 
Strange rays of wild and wandering light ; 
Uprise his locks of silver white, 
Flush'd is his brow, through every vein 
In azure tide the currents strain, 
And undistinguish'd accents broke 
The awful silence ere he spoke. 

XXXI. 

' ' De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 

To speak my curse upon thy head, ,8 

And give thee as an outcast o'er 

To him who burns to shed thy gore ; 

But, like the Midianite of old, 

Who stood on Zophim, heaven-controll'd, 

I feel within mine aged breast 

A power that will not be repress'd. 

It prompts my voice, it swell my veins, 

It burns, it maddens, it constrains! — 

De Bruce, thy sacrilegious blow 

Hath at Gods altar slain thy foe : 

O'ermaster'd yet by high behest, 

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd ! " 

He spoke, and o'er the astonish'd throng 

Was silence, awful, deep, and long. 

. XXXII. 

Again that light has fired his eye, 
Again his form swells bold and high, 
The broken voice of age is gone, 
'Tis vigorous manhood's lofty tone : — 
"Thrice vanquish'd on the battle-plain, 
Thy followers slaughter'd, fled, or ta'en, 
A hunted wanderer on the wild, 
"On foreign shores a man exiled, r 9 
Disown'd, deserted, and distress'd, 
I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd ! 
Bless'd in the hall and in the field, 
Under the mantle as the shield. 



Avenger of thy country's shame, 
Restorer of her injured fame, 
Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword, 
De Bruce> fair Scotland's rightful Lord, 
Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame, 
What lengthen'd honours wait thy name ! 
In distant ages, sire to son 
Shall tell thy tale of freedom won, 
And teach his infants, in the use 
Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce. 
Go, then, triumphant ! sweep along 
Thy course, the theme of many a song ! 
The Power, whose dictates swell my breast, 
Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be 

bless'd !— 
Enough — my short-lived strength decays, 
And sinks the momentary blaze. — 
Heaven hath our destined purpose broke, 
Not here must nuptial vow be spoke ; 
Brethren, our errand here is o'er, 
Our task discharged. — Unmoor, unmoor ! ' 
His priests received the exhausted Monk, 
As breathless in their arms he sunk. 
Punctual his orders to obey, 
The train refused all longer stay, 
Embark'd, raised sail, and bore away. 



CANTO THIRD. 
I. 
Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy 

startled head 
Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has 

roll'd, 
How, when its echoes fell, a silence 

dead 
Sunk on the wood, the meadow, and 

the wold? 
The rye-grass shakes not on the sod- 
built fold, 
The rustling aspen's leaves are mute 

and still, 
The wall-flower waves not on the ruin'd 

hold, 
Till, murmuring distant first, then near 

and shrill, 
The savage whirlwind wakes, and sweeps 

the groaning hill. 

II. 
Artornish ! such a silence sunk 
Upon thy halls, when that gray Monk 

His prophet speech had spoke ; 
And his obedient brethren's sail 
Was stretch'd to meet the southern gale 

Before a whisper woke. 



r 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



271 



Then murmuring sounds of doubt and fear, 
Close pour'd in many an anxious ear, 

The solemn stillness broke ; 
And still they gazed with eager guess, 
Where, in an oriel's deep recess, 
The Island Prince seem'd bent to press 
What Lorn, by his impatient cheer, 
And gesture fierce, scarce deign'd to hear. 

in. 
Starting at length, with frowning look, 
His hand he clench'd, his head he shook, 

And sternly flung apart ; — 
"And deem'st thou me so mean of mood, 
As to forget the mortal feud, 
And clasp the hand with blood imbrued 

From my dear Kinsman's heart? 
Is this thy rede? — a due return 
For ancient league and friendship sworn ! 
But well our mountain proverb shows 
The faith of Islesmen ebbs and flows. 
Be it even so — believe, ere long, 
He that now bears shall wreak the wrong. — 
Call Edith— call the Maid of Lorn ! 
My sister, slaves!— for further scorn, 
Be sure nor she nor I will stay. — 
Away, De Argentine, away! — 
We nor ally nor brother know, 
In Bruce's friend, or England's foe." 



But who the Chieftain's rage can tell, 
When, sought from lowest dungeon cell 
To highest tower the castle round, 
No Lady Edith was there found ! 
He shouted, "Falsehood ! — treachery! — 
Revenge and blood ! — a lordly meed 
To him that will avenge the deed ! 
A Baron's lands!" — His frantic mood 
Was scarcely by the news withstood, 
That Morag shared his sister's flight, 
And that, in hurry of the night, 
'Scaped noteless, and without remark, 
Two strangers sought the Abbot's bark. — 
" Man every galley ! — fly — pursue! 
The priest his treachery shall rue ! 
Ay, and the time shall quickly come, 
When we shall hear the thanks that Rome 
Will pay his feigned prophecy ! " 
Such was fierce Lorn's indignant cry ; 
And Cormac Doil in haste obey'd, 
Hoisted his sail; his anchor weigh'd, 
(For, glad of each pretext for spoil, 
A pirate sworn was Cormac Doil.) 
But others, lingering, spoke apart, — 
"The Maid has given her maiden heart 
To Ronald of the Isles, 



And, fearful lest her brother's word 
Bestow her on that English Lord, 

She seeks Iona's piles, 
And wisely deems it best to dwell 
A votaress in the holy cell, 
Until these feuds so fierce and fell 
The Abbot reconciles." 
v. 
As, impotent of ire, the hall 
Echo'd to Lorn's impatient call, 
' ' My horse, my mantle, and my train ! 
Let none who honours Lorn remain ! "— • 
Courteous, but stern, a bold request 
To Bruce De Argentine expressed. 
" Lord Earl," he said, — " I cannot chuse 
But yield such title to the Bruce, 
Though name and earldom both are gone, 
Since he braced rebel's armour on — 
But, Earl or Serf — rude phrase was thine 
Of late, and launch' d at Argentine ; 
Such as compels me to demand 
Redress of honour at thy hand. 
We need not to each other tell, 
That both can wield their weapons well ; 
Then do me but the soldier grace, 
This glove upon thy helm to place 

Where we may meet in fight ; 
And I will say, as still I've said, 
Though by ambition far misled, 
Thou art a noble knight." — 

VI. 

"And I," the princely Bruce replied, 
" Might term it stain onknighthood's pride 
That the bright sword of Argentine 
Should in a tyrant's quarrel shine ; 

But, for your brave request, 
Be sure the honour' d pledge you gave 
In every battle-field shall wave 

Upon my helmet-crest : 
Believe, that if my hasty tongue 
Hath done thine honour causeless wrong, 

It shall be well redress' d. 
Not dearer to my soul was glove, 
Bestow'd in youth by lady's love, 

Than this which thou hast given ! 
Thus, then, my noble foe I greet ; 
Health and high fortune till we meet, 

And then — what pleases Heaven." 

VII. 

Thus parted they — for now, with sound 
Like waves roll'd back from rocky ground, 

The friends of Lorn retire ; 
Each mainland chieftain, with his train, 
Draws to his mountain towers again. 
Pondering how mortal schemes prove vain, 

And mortal hopes expire. 



-7~ 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But through the castle double guard, 

maid's charge, kept wakeful ward, 
Wicket and gate were trebly barr'd, 

By beam and bolt and chain ; 
Then of the guests, in courteous sort,. 
He pray'd excuse for mirth broke short, 
And bade them in Artornish fort 

In confidence remain. 
Now torch and menial tendance led 
Chieftain and knight to bower and bed, 
And beads were told, and Aves said, 

And soon they sunk away 
Into such sleep, as wont to shed 
Oblivion on the weary head, 

After a toilsome day. 

VIII. 

But soon uproused, the Monarch cried 
To Edward slumbering by his side, 

' ' Awake, or sleep for aye ! 
Even now there jarr'd a secret door — 
A taper-light gleams on the floor — 

Up, Edward, up, I say ! 
Some one glides in like midnight ghost — 
Nay, strike not! tis our noble Host." 
Advancing then his taper's flame, 
Ronald stept forth, and with him came 

Dunvegan's chief — each bent the knee 

To Bruce in sign of fealty, 
And proffer'd him his sword, 

And hail'd him in a monarch's style, 

As king of mainland and of isle, 
And Scotland's rightful lord. 
"And O," said Ronald, " Own'd of 

Heaven ! 
Say, is my erring youth forgiven, 
By falsehood's arts from duty driven, 

Who rebel falchion drew, 
Yet ever to thy deeds of fame, 
Even while I strove against thy claim, 

Paid homage just and true?" — 
"Alas! dear youth, the unhappy time," 
Answer'd the Bruce, "must bear the 
crime, 

Since, guiltier far than you, 
Even I " — he paused ; for Falkirk's woes 
Upon his conscious soul arose. 20 
The Chieftain to his breast he press'd, 
And in a sigh conceal'd the rest. 

IX. 

They proffer'd aid, by arms and might, 
To repossess him in his right ; 
But well their counsels must be weigh'd, 
Ere banners raised and musters made, 
For English hire and Lorn's intrigues 
Bound many chiefs in southern leagues. 



In answer, Bruce his purpose bold 

To his new vassals frankly told. 

"The winter worn in exile o'er, 

I long'd for Carrick's kindred shore. 

I thought upon my native Ayr, 

And long'd to see the burly fare 

That Clifford makes, whose lordly call 

Now echoes through my father's hall. 

But first my course to Arran led, 

Where valiant Lennox gathers head, 

And on the sea, by tempest toss'd, 

Our barks dispersed, our purpose cross'd, 

Mine own, a hostile sail to shun, 

Far from her destined course had run, 

When that wise will, which masters ours, 

Compell'd us to your friendly towers." 

x. 

Then Torquil spoke : — "The time craves 



We must not linger in our deed, 

But instant pray our Sovereign Liege, 

To shun the perils of a siege. 

The vengeful Lorn, with all his powers, 

Lies but too near Artornish towers, 

And England's light-arm'd vessels ride, 

Not distant far, the waves of Clyde, 

Prompt at these tidings to unmoor, 

And sweep each strait, and guard each 

shore. 
Then, till this fresh alarm pass by, 
Secret and safe my Liege must lie 
In the far bounds of friendly Skye, 
Torquil thy pilot and thy guide." — 
" Not so, brave Chieftain," Ronald cried ; 
' ' Myself will on my Sovereign wait, 
And raise in arms the men of Sleate, 
Whilst thou, renown' d where chiefs debate, 
Shalt sway their souls by counsel sage, 
And awe them by thy locks of age." 
— ' ' And if my words in weight shall fail, 
This ponderous sword shall turn the scale." 

XI. 

— "The scheme," said Bruce, "contents 

me well ; 
Meantime, 'twere best that Isabel, 
For safety, with my bark and crew, 
Again to friendly Erin drew. 
There Edward, too, shall with her wend, 
In need to cheer her and defend, 
And muster up each scatter'd friend." — 
Here seem'd it as Lord Roland's ear 
Would other counsel gladlier hear ; 
But, all achieved as soon as plann'd, 
Both barks, in secret arm'd and mann'd, 
From out the haven bore ; 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



273 



On different voyage forth they ply, 
This for the coast of winged Skye, 
And that for Erin's shore. 

XII. 

With Bruce and Roland bides the tale. — 
To favouring winds they gave the sail, 
Till Mull's dark headlands scarce they 

knew, 
And Ardnamurchan's hills were blue. 
But then the squalls blew close and hard, 
And, fain to strike the galley's yard, 

And take them to the oar, 
With these rude seas, in weary plight, 
They strove the livelong day and night, 
Nor till the dawning had a sight 

Of Skye's romantic shore. 
Where Coolin stoops him to the west, 
They saw upon his shiver'd crest 

The sun's arising gleam ; 
But such the labour and delay, 
Ere they were moor'd in Scavigh bay, 
(For calmer heaven compell'd to stay,) 

He shot a western beam. 
Then Ronald said, " If true mine eye, 
These are the savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye ; 21 

No human foot comes here, 
And, since these adverse breezes blow, 
If my good Liege love hunter's bow, 
What hinders that on land we go, 

And strike a mountain-deer? 
Allan, my page, shall with us wend ; 
A bow full deftly can he bend, 
And, if we meet a herd, may send 

A shaft shall mend our cheer. ' 
Then each took bow and bolts in hand, 
Their row-boat launch'd and leapt to 
land, 

And left their skiff and train, 
Where a wild stream, with headlong shock, 
Came brawling down its bed of rock, 

To :ningle with the main. 

XIII. 

A while their route they silent made, 

As men who stalk for mountain-deer, 
Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, 

" St. Mary ! what a scene is here ! — 
I've traversed many a mountain-strand, 

At road and in my native land, 
And i: nas been my lot to tread 
Where safety more than pleasure led ; 
Thus, many a waste I've wander'd o'er, 
Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor, 

But, by my halidome, 
A scer.e so rude, so wild as this, 
Yet so sublime in barrenness, 



Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press, 
Where'er I happ'd to roam." 

XIV. 

No marvel thus the Monarch spake ; 

For rarely human eye has known 
A scene so stern as that dread lake, 

With its dark ledge of barren stone. 
Seems that primeval earthquake's sway 
Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way 

Through the rude bosom of the hill, 
And that each naked precipice, 
Sable ravine, and dark abyss, 

Tells of the outrage still. 
The wildest glen, but this, can show 
Some touch of Nature's genial glow ; 
On high Ben more green mosses grow, 
And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, 

And copse on Cruchan-Ben; 
But here, — above, around, below, 

On mountain or in glen, 
Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, 
Nor aught of vegetative power, 

The weary eye may ken. 
For all is rocks at random thrown, 
Black waves, bare crags, and banks of 
stone ; 

As if were here denied 
The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, 
That clothe with many a varied hue 

The bleakest mountain-side. 
• XV. 
And wilder, forward as they wound, 
Were the proud cliffs and lake profound. 
Huge terraces of granite black 
Afforded rude and cumber'd track ; 

For from the mountain hoar, 
Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, 
When yell'd the wolf and fled the deer, 

Loose crags had toppled o'er ; 
And some, chance-poised and balanced, 

lay, 
So that a stripling arm might sway 

A mass no host could raise, 
In Nature's rage at random thrown, 
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone 

On its precarious base. 
The evening mists, with ceaseless change, 
Now clothed the mountains' lofty range, 

Now left their foreheads bare, 
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd, 
Or on the sable waters curl'd, 
Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd, 

Dispersed in middle air. 
And oft, condensed, at once they lower, 
When, brief and fierce, the mountain 
shower 

18 



274 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Pours like a torrent down, 
And when return the sun's glad beams, 
Whitend with foam a thousand streams 

Leap from the mountain's crown. 

XVI. 

' ' This lake, " said Bruce, ' ' whose barriers 

drear 
Are precipices sharp and sheer, 
Yielding no track for goat or deer, 

Save the black shelves we tread, 
How term you its dark waves ? and how 
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow, 

And yonder peak of dread, 
That to the evening sun uplifts 
The grisly gulfs and slaty rifts, 

Which seam its shiver'd head?" — 
" Coriskin call the dark lake's name, 
Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim, 
From old Cuchullin, chief of fame. 
But bards, familiar in our isles 
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles, 
Full oft their careless humours please 
By sportive names from scenes like these. 
I would old Torquil were to show 
His maidens with their breasts of snow, 
Or that my noble Liege were nigh 
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby ! 
(The Maids — tall cliffs with breakers white, 
The Nurse — a torrent's roaring might,) 
Or that your eye could see the mood 
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool#ude, 
When dons the Hag her whiten'd hood — 
'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, 
For scenes so stern, fantastic names." 

XVII. 

Answer'd the Bruce, " And musing mind 

Might here a graver moral find. 

These mighty cliffs, that heave on high 

Their naked brows to middle sky, 

Indifferent to the sun or snow, 

Where nought can fade, and nought can 

blow, 
May they not mark a Monarch's fate, — 
Raised high 'mid storms of strife and state, 
Beyond life's lowlier pleasures placed, 
His soul a rock, his heart a waste ? 
O'er hope and love and fear aloft 
High rears his crowned head — But soft! 
Look, underneath yon jutting crag 
Are hunters and a slaughter' d stag. 
Who may they be ? But late you said 
No steps these desert regions tread." — 

XVIII. 

" So said I — and believed in sooth," 
Ronald replied, ' ' 1 spoke the truth. 



Yet now I spy, by yonder stone, 
Five men — they mark us, and come on ; 
And by their badge on bonnet borne, 
I guess them of the land of Lorn, 
Foes to my Liege." — " So let it be ; 
I've faced worse odds than five to three— 
— But the poor page can little aid ; 
Then be our battle thus array'd, 
If our free passage they contest ; 
Cope thou with two, I'll match the rest." — 
" Not so, my Liege — for, by my life, 
This sword shall meet the treble strife ; 
My strength, my skill in arms, more small, 
And less the loss should Ronald fall. 
But islemen soon to soldiers grow, 
Allan has sword as well as bow, 
And were my Monarch's order given, 
Two shafts should make our number 

even." — 
" No ! not to save my life ! " he said ; 
" Enough of blood rests on my head, 
Too rashly spill'd — we soon shall know, 
Whether they come as friend or foe." 

XIX. 
Nigh came the strangers, and more nigh ; — 
Still less they pleased the Monarch's eye. 
Men were they all of evil mien, 
Down-look'd, unwilling to be seen ; 
They moved with half-resolved pace, 
And bent on earth each gloomy face. 
The foremost two were fair array'd, 
With brogue and bonnet, trews and plaid, 
And bore the arms of mountaineers, 
Daggers and broadswords, bows and 

spears, 
The three, that lagg'd small space behind, 
Seem'd serfs of more degraded kind ; 
Goat-skins or deer-hides o'er them cast, 
Made a rude fence against the blast ; 
Their arms and feet and heads were bare, 
Matted their beards, unshorn their hair ; 
For arms, the caitiffs bore in hand, 
A club, an axe, a rusty brand. 

xx. 
Onward, still mute, they kept the track ;— 
" Tell who ye be, or else stand back," 
Said Bruce ; " In deserts when they meet, 
Men pass not as in peaceful street." 
Still, at his stern command, they stood, 
And proffer'd greeting brief and rude, 
But acted courtesy so ill, 
As seem'd of fear, and not of will. 
' ' Wanderers we are, as you may be ; 
Men hither driven by wind and sea, 
Who, if you list to taste our cheer, 
Will share with you this fallow deer."— 



" If from the sea, where lies your bark?" — 
"Ten fathom deep in ocean dark! 
Wreck'd yesternight : but we are men, 
Who little sense of peril ken. 
The shades come down — the day is shut — 
Will you go with us to our hut? " — 
" Our vessel waits us in the bay ; 
Thanks for your proffer — have good- 
day." — 
" Was that your galley, then, which rode 
Not far from shore when evening glow'd ?" — 
"It was." — "Then spare your needless 

pain, 
There will she now be sought in vain. 
We saw her from the mountain-head, 
When, with St. George's blazon red, 
A southern vessel bore in sight, 
And yours raised sail, and took to flight." — 



"Now, by the rood, unwelcome news! " 
Thus with Lord Ronald communed Bruce ; 
" Nor rests there light enough to show 
If this their tale be true or no. 
The men seem bred of churlish kind, 
Yet mellow nuts have hardest rind ; 
We will go with them — food and fire 
And sheltering roof our wants require. 
Sure guard 'gainst treachery will we keep, 
And watch by turns our comrades' sleep. — 
Good fellows, thanks ; your guests we'll be, 
And well will pay the courtesy. 
Come, lead us where your lodging lies, — 
— Nay, soft! we mix not companies. — 
Show us the path o'er crag and stone, 
And we will follow you ;— lead on." 

XXII. 

They reach'd the dreary cabin, made 
Of sails against a rock display'd, 

And there, on entering, found 
A slender boy, whose form and mien 
111 suited with such savage scene, 
In cap and cloak of velvet green, 

Low seated on the ground. 
His garb was such as minstrels wear, 
Dark was his hue, and dark his hair, 
His youthful cheek was marr'd by care, 

His eyes in sorrow drown'd. 
"Whence this poor boy?" — As Ronald 

spoke, 
The voice his trance of anguish broke ; 
As if awaked from ghastly dream, 
He raised his head with start and scream, 

And wildly gazed around ; 
Then to the wall his face he turn'd, 
And his dark neck with blushes burn'd. 



" Whose is the boy? " again he said.— 
" By chance of war our captive made ; 
He may be yours, if you should hold 
That music has more charms than gold ; 
For, though from earliest childhood mute, 
The lad can deftly touch the lute, 
And on the rote and viol play, 
And well can drive the time away 

For those who love such glee ; 
For me, the favouring breeze, when loud 
It pipes upon the galley's shroud, 
Makes blither melody." — 
' ' Hath he, then, sense of spoken sound ?" — 

' ' Aye ; so his mother bade us know, 
A crone in our late shipwreck drown'd, 

And hence the silly stripling's woe. 
More of the youth I cannot say, 
Our captive but since yesterday ; 
When wind and weather wax'd so grim, 
We little listed think of him. — 
But why waste time in idle words ? 
Sit to your cheer— unbelt your swords." 
Sudden the captive turn'd his head, 
And one quick glance to Ronald sped- 
It was a keen and warning look, 
And well the Chief the signal took. 

XXIV. 

" Kind host," he said, " our needs require 
A separate board and separate fire ; 
For know, that on a pilgrimage 
Wend I, my comrade, and this page. 
And, sworn to vigil and to fast, 
Long as this hallow'd task shall last, 
We never doff the plaid or sword, 
Or feast us at a stranger's board ; 
And never share one common sleep, 
But one must still his vigil keep. 
Thus, for our separate use, good friend, 
We'll hold this hut's remoter end." — 
"A churlish vow," the eldest said, 
" And hard, methinks, to be obey'd. 
How say you, if, to wreak the scorn 
That pays our kindness harsh return, 
We should refuse to share our meal?" 
" Then say we, that our swords are steel! 
And our vow binds us not to fast, 
Where gold or force may buy repast." — 
Their host's dark brow grew keen and fell, 
His teeth are clench'd, his features swell; 
Yet sunk the felon's moody ire 
Before Lord Ronald's glance of fire, 
Nor could his craven courage brook 
The Monarch's calm and dauntless look. 
With laugh constrain'd, — " Let every man 
Follow the fashion of his clan 1 



Each to his separate quarters keep, 
And feed or fast, or wake or sleep." 

XXV. 

Their fire at separate distance burns, 
By turns they eat, keep guard by turns ; 
For evil seem'd that old man's eye, 
Dark and designing, fierce yet shy. 
Still he avoided forward look, 
But slow and circumspectly took 
A circling, never-ceasing glance, 
By doubt and cunning mark'd at once, 
Which shot a mischief-boding ray, 
From under eyebrows shagg'd and gray. 
The younger, too, who seem'd his son, 
Had that dark look the timid shun ; 
The half-clad serfs behind them sate, 
And scowl'd a glare twixt fear and hate — 
Till all, as darkness onward crept, 
Couch'd down, and seem'd to sleep or slept. 
Nor he, that boy, whose powerless tongue 
Must trust his eyes to wail his wrong, 
A longer watch of sorrow made, 
But stretch'd his limbs to slumber laid. 



Not in his dangerous host confides 
The King, but wary watch provides. 
Roland keeps ward till midnight past, 
Then wakes the King, young Allan last ; 
Thus rank'd, to give the youthful page 
The rest required by tender age. 
What is Lord Ronald's wakeful thought, 
To chase the languor toil had brought ? — 
(For deem not that he deign' d to throw 
Much care upon such coward foe,) — 
He thinks of lovely Isabel, 
When at her foeman's feet she fell, 
Nor less when, placed in princely selle, 
She glanced on him with favouring eyes, 
At Woodstock when he won the prize, 
Nor, fair in joy, in sorrow fair, 
In pride of place as 'mid despair, 
Must she alone engross his care. 
His thoughts to his betrothed bride, 
To Edith, turn — O how decide, 
When here his love and heart are given, 
And there his faith stands plight to Heaven ! 
No drowsy ward 'tis his to keep, 
For seldom lovers long for sleep. 
Till sung his midnight hymn the owl, 
Answer'd the dog-fox with his howl, 
Then waked the King — at his request, 
Lord Ronald stretch'd himself to rest. 

XXVII. 

What spell was good King Robert's, say, 
To drive the weary night away? 



His was the patriot's burning thought, 
Of Freedom's battle bravely fought, 
Of castles storm'd, of cities freed, 
Of deep design and daring deed, 
Of England's roses reft and torn, 
And Scotland's cross in triumph worn, 
Of rout and rally, war and truce, — 
As heroes think, so thought the Bruce. 
No marvel, 'mid such musings high, 
Sleep shunn'd the Monarch's thoughtful 

eye. 
Now over Coolin's eastern head 
The grayish light begins to spread, 
The otter to his cavern drew, 
And clamour'd shrill the wakening mew ; 
Then watch'd the page — to needful rest 
The King resign'd his anxious breast. 

XXVIII. 

To Allan's eyes was harder task, 
The weary watch their safeties ask. 
He trimm'd the fire, and gave to shine 
With bickering light the splinter'd pine , 
Then gazed awhile, where silent laid 
Their hosts were shrouded by the plaid. 
But little fear waked in his mind, 
For he was bred of martial kind, 
And, if to manhood he arrive, 
May match the boldest knight alive. 
Then thought he of his mother's tower, 
His little sisters' greenwood bower, 
How there the Easter-gambols pass, 
And of Dan Joseph's lengthen'd mass. 
But still before his weary eye 
In rays prolong'd the blazes die — 
Again he roused him — on the lake 
Look'd forth, where now the twilight- 
flake 
Of pale cold dawn began to wake. 
On Coolin's cliffs the mist lay furl'd, 
The morning breeze the lake had curl'd, 
The short dark waves, heaved to the land, 
With ceaseless plash kiss'd cliff or sand ; — 
It was a slumbrous sound — he turn'd 
To tales at which his youth had burn'd, 
Of pilgrim's path by demon cross'd, 
Of sprightly elf or yelling ghost, 
Of the wild witch's baneful cot, 
And mermaid's alabaster grot, 
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well, 
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. 21 
Thither in fancy rapt he flies, 
And on his sight the vaults arise ; 
That hut's dark walls he sees no more, 
His foot is on the marble floor, 
And o'er his head the dazzling spars 
Gleam like a firmament of stars ! 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



277 



— Hark ! hears he not the sea-nymph speak 
Her anger in that thrilling shriek ! — 
No ! all too late, with Allan's dream 
Mingled the captive's warning scream. 
As from the ground he strives to start, 
A ruffian's dagger finds his heart ! 
Upward he casts his dizzy eyes, . . . 
Murmurs his master's name, . . . and dies ! 

XXIX. 

Not so awoke the King ! his hand 
Snatch'd from the flame a knotted brand, 
The nearest weapon of his wrath ; 
With this he cross'd the murderer's path, 

And venged young Allan well ! 
The spatter'd brain and bubbling blood 
Hiss'd on the half-extinguish'd wood, 

The miscreant gasp'd and fell! 
Nor rose in peace the Island Lord ; 
One caitiff died upon his sword, 
And one beneath his grasp lies prone, 
In mortal grapple overthrown. 
But while Lord Ronald's dagger drank 
The life-blood from his panting flank, 
The Father-ruffian of the band 
Behind him rears a coward hand! 

— O for a moment's aid, 
Till Bruce, who deals no double blow, 
Dash to the earth another foe, 

Above his comrade laid ! — 
And it is gain'd — the captive sprung 
On the raised arm, and closely clung, 

And, ere he shook him loose, 
The master' d felon press'd the ground, 
And gasp'd beneath the mortal wound, 

While o'er him stands the Bruce. 



" Miscreant! while lasts thy flitting spark, 
Give me to know the purpose dark, 
Thatarm'd thy hand with murderous knife, 
Against offenceless stranger's life ? " — 
" No stranger thou ! " with accent fell, 
Murmur'd the wretch ; " I know thee well ; 
And know thee for the foeman sworn 
Of my high Chiet, the mighty Lorn." — 
" Speak yet again, and speak the truth 
For thy soul's sake! — from whence this 

youth ? 
His country, birth, and name declare, 
And thus one evil deed repair." — 
— "Vex me no more! ... my blood 

runs cold . . . 
No more I know than I have told. 
We found him in a bark we sought 
With different purpose .... and I 

thought" . . . 



Fate cut him short ; in blood and broil, 
As he had lived, died Cormac Doil. 

XXXI. 

Then resting on his bloody blade, 
The valiant Bruce to Roland said, 
" Now shame upon us both ! — that boy 

Lifts his mute face to heaven, 
And clasps his hands, to testify 
His gratitude to God on high, 

For strange deliverance given. 
His speechless gesture thanks hath paid, 
Which our free tongues have left unsaid !" 
He raised the youth with kindly word, 
But mark'd him shudder at the sword : 
He cleansed it from its hue of death, 
And plunged the weapon in its sheath. 
"Alas, poor child! unfitting part 
Fate doom'd, when with so soft a heart, 

And form so slight as thine, 
She made thee first a pirate's slave, 
Then, in his stead, a patron gave 

Of wayward lot like mine ; 
A landless prince, whose wanaering life 
Is but one scene of blood and strife — 
Yet scant of friends the Bruce shall be, 
But he'll find resting-place for thee. — 
Come, noble Ronald ! o'er the dead 
Enough thy generous grief is paid, 
And well has Allan's fate been wroke ; 
Come, wend we hence — the day has broke. 
Seek we our bark — I trust the tale 
Was false, that she had hoisted sail." 

XXXII. 

Yet, ere they left that charnel-cell, 
The Island Lord bade sad farewell 
To Allan :— " Who shall tell this tale," 
He said, "in halls of Donagaile! 
Oh, who his widovv'd mother tell, 
That, ere his bloom, her fairest fell ! — 
Rest thee, poor youth ! and trust my care 
For mass and knell and funeral prayer ; 
While o'er those caitiffs, where they lie, 



The wolf shall snarl, the raven 



cry! 



And now the eastern mountain's head 
On the dark lake threw lustre red ; 
Bright gleams of gold and purple streak 
Ravine and precipice and peak — 
(So earthly power at distance shows ; 
Reveals his splendour, hides his woes.) 
O'er sheets of granite, dark and broad, 
Rent and unequal, lay the road. 
In sad discourse the warriors wind, 
And the mute captive moves behind. 



CANTO FOURTH. 
I. 
Stranger ! if e'er thine ardent step 

hath traced 
The northern realms of ancient Caledon, 
Where the proud Queen of Wilderness 

hath placed, 
By lake and cataract, her lonely throne ; 
Sublime but sad delight thy soul hath 

known, 
Gazing on pathless glen and mountain 

high, 
Listing where from the cliffs the torrents 

thrown 
Mingle their echoes with the eagle's cry, 
And with the sounding lake, and with the 

moaning sky. 

Yes ! 'twas sublime, but sad. — The lone- 
liness 
Loaded thy heart, the desert tired thine 

eye; 
And strange and awful fears began to 

press 
Thy bosom with a stern solemnity. 
Then hast thou wish'd some woodman's 

cottage nigh, 
Something that show'd of life, though 

low and mean ; 
Glad sight, its curling wreath of smoke 

to spy, 
Glad sound, its cock's blithe carol would 

have been, 
Or children whooping wild beneath the 

willows green. 

Such are the scenes, where savage gran- 
deur wakes 
An awful thrill that softens into sighs ; 
Such feelings rouse them by dim Ran- 

noch's lakes, 
In dark Glencoe such gloomy raptures 

rise; 
Or farther, where, beneath the northern 

skies, 
Chides wild Loch-Eribol his caverns 

hoar — 
But, be the minstrel judge, they yield 

the prize 
Of desert dignity to that dread shore, 
That sees grim Coolin rise, and hears 

Coriskin roar. 



Through such wild scenes the champion 

pass'd, 
When bold halloo and bugle-blast 



Upon the breeze came loud and fast. 
"There," said the Bruce, "rung Edward's 

horn ! 
Whan can have caused such brief return? 
And see, brave Ronald, — see him dart 
O'er stock and stone like hunted hart, 
Precipitate, as is the use, 
In war or sport, of Edward Bruce. 
— He marks us, and his eager cry 
Will tell his news ere he be nigh." 

ill. 
Loud Edward shouts, "What make ye 

here, 
Warring upon the mountain-deer, 

When Scotland wants her king? 
A bark from Lennox cross'd our track, 
With her in speed I hurried back, 

These joyful news to bring — 
The Stuart stirs in Teviotdale, 
And Douglas wakes his native vale ; 
Thy storm-toss'd fleet hath won its way 
With little loss to Brodick-Bay, 
And Lennox, with a gallant band, 
Waits but thy coming and command 
To waft them o'er to Carrick strand. 
There are blithe news! — but mark the 

close ! 
Edward, the deadliest of our foes, 
As with his host he northward pass'd, 
Hath on the Borders breathed his last.' 

IV. 

Still stood the Bruce — his steady cheek 
Was little wont his joy to speak, 

But then his colour rose : 
" Now, Scotland ! shortly shalt thou see 
With God's high will, thy children free, 

And vengeance on thy foes ! 
Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs, 
Bear witness with me, Heaven, belongs 

My joy o'er Edward's bier ; 2 3 
I took my knighthood at his hand, 
And lordship held of him , and land, 

And well may vouch it here, 
That, blot the story from his page, 
Of Scotland ruin'd in his rage, 
You read a monarch brave and sage, 

And to his people dear." 
" Let London's burghers mourn her Lord, 
And Croydon monks his praise record," 

The eager Edward said ; 
" Eternal as his own, my hate 
Surmounts the bounds of mortal fate, 

And dies not with the dead ! 
Such hate was his on Solway's strand, 
When vengeance clench'd his palsied hand, 
That pointed yet to Scotland's land, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



279 



As his last accents pray'd 
Disgrace and curse upon his heir, 
If he one Scottish head should spare, 
Till stretch'd upon the bloody lair 

Each rebel corpse was laid ! 
Such hate was his., when his last breath, 
Renounced the peaceful house of death, 
And bade his bones to Scotland's coast 
Be borne by his remorseless host, 
As if his dead and stony eye 
Could still enjoy her misery ! 
Such hate was his — dark, deadly, long ! 
Mine, — as enduring, deep, and strong!"- 



" Let women, Edward, war with words, 
With curses monks, but men with swords : 
Nor doubt of living foes, to sate 
Deepest revenge and deadliest hate. 
Now, to the sea! behold the beach, 
And see the galleys' pendants stretch 
Their fluttering length down favouring 

gale! 
Aboard, aboard ! and hoist the sail. 
Hold we our way for Arran first, 
Where meet in arms our friends dispersed ; 
Lennox the loyal, De la Haye, 
And Boyd the bold in battle fray. 
I long the hardy band to head, 
And see once more my standard spread. — 
Does noble Ronald share our course, 
Or stay to raise his island force?" — 
" Come weal, come woe, by Bruce's side," 
Replied the Chief, "will Ronald bide. 
And since two galleys yonder ride, 
Be mine, so please my liege, dismiss'd 
To wake to arms the clans of Uist, 
And all who hear the Minche's roar, 
On the Long Island's lonely shore. 
The nearer Isles, with slight delay, 
Ourselves may summon in our way ; 
And soon on Arran's shore shall meet, 
With Torquil's aid, a gallant fleet, 
If aught avails their Chieftain's hest 
Among the islesmen of the west." 



Thus was their venturous council said. 
But, ere their sails the galleys spread, 
Coriskin dark and Coolin high 
Echoed the dirge's doleful cry. 
Along that sable lake pass'd slow, — 
Fit scene for such a sight of woe, 
The sorrowing islesmen, as they bore 
The murder'd Allan to the shore. 
At every pause, with dismal shout, 
Their coronach of grief rung out, 



And ever, when they moved again, 
The pipes resumed their clamorous strain, 
And, with the pibroch's shrilling wail, 
Mourn'd the young heir of Donagaile. 
Round and around, from cliff and cave, 
His answer stern old Coolin gave, 
Till high upon his misty side 
Languish'd the mournful notes, and died. 
For never sounds, by mortal made, 
Attain'd his high and haggard head, 
That echoes but the tempest's moan, 
Or the deep thunder's rending groan. 

VII. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark, 

She bounds before the gale, 
The mountain breeze from Ben-na-darch 

Is joyous in her sail ! 
With fluttering sound like laugnter hoarse, 

The cords and canvas strain, 
The waves, divided by her force, 
In rippling eddies chased her course, 

As if they laugh 'd again. 
Not down the breeze more blithely flew, 
Skimming the wave, the light sea-mew, 

Than the gay galley bore 
Her course upon that favouring wind, 
And Coolin's crest has sunk behind, 

And Slapin's cavern'd shore. 
'Twas then that warlike signals wake 
Dunscaith's dark towers and Eisord's lake, 
And soon, from Cavilgarrigh's head, 
Thick wreaths of eddying smoke were 

spread ; 
A summons these of war and wrath 
To the brave clans of Sleat and Strath, 

And, ready at the sight, 
Each warrior to his weapons sprung, 
And targe upon his shoulder flung, 

Impatient for the fight. 
Mac-Kinnon's chief, in warfare gray, 
Had charge to muster their array, 
And guide their barks to Brodick-Bay. 

VIII. 
Signal of Ronald's high command, 
A beacon gleam'd o'er sea and land, 
From Canna's tower, that, steep and gray, 
Like falcon-nest o'erhangs the bay. 
Seek not the giddy crag to climb, 
To view the turret scathed by time, 
It is a task of doubt and fear 
To aught but goat or mountain-deer. 

But rest thee on the silver beach, 

And let the aged herdsman teach 
His tale of former day; 

His cur's wild clamour he shall chide, 

And for thy seat by ocean's side, 



His varied plaid display ; 
Then tell, how with their Chieftain came, 

In ancient times, a foreign dame 
To yonder turret gray. 
Stern was her Lord's suspicious mind, 
Who in so rude a jail confined 

So soft and fair a thrall ! 
And oft, when moon on ocean slept, 
That lovely lady sate and wept 

Upon the castle-wall, 
And turn'd her eye to southern climes, 
And thought perchance of happier times, 
And touch'd her lute by fits, and sung 
Wild ditties in her native tongue. 
And still, when on the cliff and bay. 
Placid and pale the moonbeams play, 

And every breeze is mute, 
Upon the lone Hebridean's ear 
Steals a strange pleasure mix'd with fear, 
While from that cliff he seems to hear 

The murmur of a lute, 
And sounds, as of a captive lone, 
That mourns her woes in tongue un- 
known. — 
Strange is the tale — but all too long 
Already hath it staid the song — 

Yet who may pass them by, 
That crag and tower in ruins gray, 
Nor to their hapless tenant pay 

The tribute of a sigh ! 

IX. 

Merrily, merrily bounds the bark 

O'er the broad ocean driven, 
Her path by Ronin's mountains dark 

The steersman's hand hath given. 
And Ronin's mountains dark have sent 

Their hunters to the shore, 2 * 
And each his ashen bow unbent, 

And gave his pastime o'er, 
And at the Island Lord's command, 
For hunting spear took warrior's brand. 
On Scooreigg next a warning light 
Summon'd her warriors to the fight ; 
A numerous race, ere stern MacLeod 
O'er their bleak shores in vengeance 

strode , ? 5 
When all in vain the ocean-cave 
Its refuge to his victims gave. 
The Chief, relentless in his wrath, 
With blazing heath blockades the path ; 
In dense and stifling volumes roll'd, 
The vapour fill'd the cavern'd hold ! 
The warrior-threat, the infant's plain, 
The mother's screams, were heard in vain ! 
The vengeful Chief maintains his fires, 
Till in the vault a tribe expires! 



The bones which strew that cavern's 

gloom, 
Too well attest their dismal doom. 

x. 

Merrily, merrily goes ^ie bark 

On a breeze from the northward free, 
So shoots through the morning sky the laik, 

Or the swan through the summer sea. 
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, 
And Ulva dark and Colonsay, 
And all the group of islets gay 

That guard famed Staffa round. 
Then all unknown its columns rose, 
Where dark and undisturb'd repose 

The cormorant had found, 
And the shy seal had quiet home, 
And welter'd in that wondrous dome, 
Where, as to shame the temples deck'd 
By skill of earthly architect, 
Nature herself, it seem'd would raise 
A Minster to her Maker's praise ! 
Not for a meaner use ascend 
Her columns, or her arches bend ; 
Nor of a theme less solemn tells 
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, 
And still, between each awful pause, 
From the high vault an answer dra" s, 
In varied tone prolong'd and hign, 
That mocks the organ's melody. 
Nor doth its entrance front in vain 
To old Iona's holy fane, 
That Nature's voice might seem tc c ay, 
' ' Well hast thou done, frail Child of clay ! 
Thy humble powers that stately shrine 
Task'd high and hard — but 'vitr.ess 
mine ! " 

XI. 
Merrily, merrily goes the bark, 

Before the gale she bounds ; 
So darts the dolphin from the shaik, 

Or the deer before the hounds. 
They left Loch-Tua on their lee, 
And they waken'd the men of the wild 
Tiree, 

And the Chief of the sandy Coll ; 
They paused not at Columba's isle, 
Though peal'd the bells from the holy pile 

With long and measured toll ; 
No time for matin or for mass, 
And the sounds of the holy summons pass 

Away in the billows' roil. 
Lochbuie's fierce and warlike Lord 
Their signal saw, and grasp'd his sword, 
And verdant Islay call'd her host, 
And the clans of Jura's rugged coast 

Lord Ronald's call obey, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



281 



And Scarba*s isle, whose tortured shore 
Still rings to Corrievreken's roar, 

And lonely Colonsay ; 
— Scenessung by him who sings no more ! ^ 
His bright and brief career is o'er, 

And mute his tuneful strains ; 
Quench 'd is his lamp of varied lore, 
That loved the light of song to pour ; 
A distant and a deadly shore 

Has Leyden's cold remains ! 



Ever the breeze blows merrily, 
But the galley ploughs no more the sea. 
Lest, rounding wild Cantyre, they meet 
The southern foemen's watchful fleet, 

They held unwonted way; — 
Up Tarbat's western lake they bore, 
Then dragg'd their bark the isthmus o'er, 2 ? 
As far as Kilmaconnel's shore, 

Upon the eastern bay. 
It was a wondrous sight to see 
Topmast and pennon glitter free, 
High raised above the greenwood tree, 
As on dry land the galley moves, 
By cliff and copse and aider groves. 
Deep import from that selcouth sign, 
Did many a mountain Seer divine, 
For ancient legends told the Gael, 
That when a royal bark should sail 

O'er Kilmaconnel moss, 
Old Albyn should in fight prevail, 
And every foe should faint and quail 

Before her silver Cross. 



Now launch'd once more, the inland sea 
They furrow with fair augury, 

And steer for Arran's isle ; 
The sun, ere yet he sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoil, "the Mountain of the Wind, 
Gave his grim peaks a greeting kind, 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. 28 
Thither their destined course they drew ; 
It seem'd the isle her monarch knew, 
So brilliant was the landward view, 

The ocean so serene ; 
Each puny wave in diamonds roll'd 
O'er the calm deep, where hues of gold 

With azure strove and green. 
The hill, the vale, the tree, the tower, 
Glow'd with the tints of evening's hour, 

The beach was silver sheen, 
The wind breathed soft as lover's sigh, 
And, ofc renew'd, seem'd oft to die, 

With breathless pause between. 
O who, with speech of war and woes, 



Would wish to break the soft repose 
Of such enchanting scene ! 



Is it of war Lord Ronald speaks ? 
The blush that dyes his manly cheeks, 
The timid look and downcast eye, 
And faltering voice the theme deny. 
And good King Robert's brow express'd, 
He ponder'd o'er some high request, 

As doubtful to approve ; 
Yet in his eye and lip the while, 
Dwelt the half-pitying glance and smile, 
Which manhood's graver mood beguile, 
When lovers talk of love. 
Anxious his suit Lord Ronald pled ; 
— " And for my bride betrothed," he said, 
" My Liege has heard the rumour spread, 
Of Edith from Artornish fled. 
Too hard her fate — I claim no right 
To blame her for her hasty flight ; 
Be joy and happiness her lot ! — 
But she hath fled the bridal knot, 
And Lorn recall'd his promised plight, 
In the assembled chieftains' sight. — 
When, to fulfil our fathers' band, 
I proffer'd all I could — my hand — 

I was repulsed with scorn ; 
Mine honour I should ill assert, 
And worse the feelings of my heart, 
If I should play a suitor's part 
Again, to pleasure Lorn." 



"Young Lord," the royal Bruce replied, 
"That question must the Church decide; 
Yet seems it hard, since rumours state 
Edith takes Clifford for her mate, 
The very tie, which she hath broke, 
To thee should still be binding yoke. 
But, for my sister Isabel — 
The mood of woman who can tell? 
I guess the Champion of the Rock, 
Victorious in the tourney shock, 
That knight unknown, to whom the prize 
She dealt, — had favour in her eyes ; 
But since our brother Nigel's fate, 
Our ruin'd house and hapless state, 
From worldly joy and hope estranged, 
Much is the hapless mourner changed. 
Perchance," here smiled the noble King, 
"This tale may other musings bring. 
Soon shall we know — yon mountains hide 
The little convent of Saint Bride ; 
There, sent by Edward, she must stay, 
Till fate shall give more prosperous day ; 



282 



SCOTT'S TOE TIC A L WORKS. 



And thither will I bear thy suit, 
Nor will thine advocate be mute." 



As thus they talk'd in earnest mood, 
That speechless boy beside them stood. 
He stoop'd his head against the mast, 
And bitter sobs came thick and fast, 
A grief that would not be repress' d, 
But seem'd to burst his youthful breast. 
His hands, against his forehead held, 
As if by force his tears repell'd, 
But through his fingers, long and slight, 
Fast trill'd the drops of crystal bright. 
Edward, who walk'd the deck apart, 
First spied this conflict of the heart. 
Thoughtless as brave, with bluntness kind 
He sought to cheer the sorrower's mind ; 
By force the slender hand he drew 
From those poor eyes that stream'd with 

dew. 
As in his hold the stripling strove,— 
('Twas a rough grasp, though meant^in 

love,) 
Away his tears the warrior swept, 
And bade shame on him that he wept. 
' ' I would to Heaven, thy helpless tongue 
Could tell me who hath wrought thee 

wrong ! 
For, were he of our crew the best, 
The insult went not unredress'd. 
Come, cheer thee ; thou art now of age 
To be a warrior's gallant page ; 
Thou shalt be mine ! — a palfrey fair 
O'er hill and holt my boy shall bear, 
To hold my bow in hunting grove, 
Or speed on errand to my love ; 
For well I wot thou wilt not tell 
The temple where my wishes dwell." 



Bruce interposed, — "Gay Edward, no, 

This is no youth to hold thy bow, 

To fill thy goblet, or to bear 

Thy message light to lighter fair. 

Thou art a patron all too wild 

And thoughtless, for this orphan child. 

See'st thou not how apart he steals, 

Keeps lonely couch, and lonely meals? 

Fitter by far in yon calm cell 

To tend our sister Isabel, 

With Father Augustin to share 

The peaceful change of convent prayer, 

Than wander wild adventures through, 

With such a reckless guide as you." — 

"Thanks, brother!" Edward answer'd 

gay. 



' ' For the high laud thy words convey I 
But we may learn some future day, 
If thou or I can this poor boy 
Protect the best, or best employ. 
Meanwhile, our vessel nears the strand ; 
Launch we the boat, and seek the land." 

XVIII. 
To land King Robert lightly sprung, 
And thrice aloud his bugle rung 
With note prolong' d and varied strain, 
Till bold Ben-Ghoil replied again. 
Good Douglas then, and De la Haye, 
Had in a glen a hart at bay, 
And Lennox cheer' d the laggard hounds, 
When waked that horn the greenwood 

bounds. 
" It is the foe !" cried Boyd, who came 
In breathless haste with eye of flame, — 
" It is the foe ! — Each valiant lord 
Fling by his bow, and grasp his sword ! " — 
" Not so," replied the good Lord James, 
" That blast no English bugle claims. 
Oft have I heard it fire the fight, 
Cheer the pursuit, or stop the flight. 
Dead were my heart, and deaf mine ear, 
If Bruce should call, nor Douglas hear ! 
Each to Loch Ranza's margin spring ; 
That blast was winded by the King!" =9 



Fast to their mates the tidings spread, 
And fast to shore the warriors sped. 
Bursting from glen and greenwood tree, 
High waked their loyal jubilee! 
Around the royal Bruce they crowd, 
And clasp'd his hands, and wept aloud. 
Veterans of early fields were there, 
Whose helmets press'd their hoary hair, 
Whose swords and axes bore a stain 
From life-blood of the red-hair'd Dane ; 
And boys, whose hands scarce brook'd to 

wield 
The heavy sword or bossy shield. 
Men too were there, that bore the scars 
Impress'd in Albyn's woeful wars, 
At Falkirk's fierce and fatal fight, 
Teyndrum's dread rout, and Methven's 

flight ; 
The might of Douglas there was seen, 
There Lennox with his graceful mien ; 
Kirkpatrick, Closeburn's dreaded Knight ; 
The Lindsay, fiery, fierce, and light ; 
The Heir of murder'd De la Haye, 
And Boyd the grave, and Seton gay. 
Around their King regain' d they press'd, 
Wept, shouted, clasp'd him to their breast, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



283 



And young and old, and serf and lord, 
And he" who ne'er unsheathed a sword, 
And he in many a peril tried, 
Alike resolved the brunt to bide, 
And Hve or die by Bruce's side 1 

xx. 

Oh, War ! thou hast thy fierce delight, 
Thy gleams of joy, intensely bright! 
Such gleams, as from thy polish'd shield 
Fly dazzling o'er the battle-field ! 
Such transports wake, severe and high, 
Amid the pealing conquest-cry ; 
Scarce less, when, after battle lost, 
Muster the remnants of a host, 
And as each comrade's name they tell, 
Who in the well-fought conflict fell, 
Knitting stern brow o'er flashing eye, 
Vow to avenge them or to die ! — 
Warriors ! — and where are warriors found, 
If not on martial Britain's ground? 
And who, when waked with note of fire, . 
Love more than they the British lyre ? — 
Know ye not, — hearts to honour dear! 
That joy, deep-thrilling, stern, severe, 
At which the heartstrings vibrate high, 
And wake the fountains of the eye? 
And blame ye, then, the Bruce, if trace 
Of tear is on his manly face, 
When, scanty relics of the train 
That hail'd at Scone his early reign, 
This patriot band around him hung, 
And to his knees and bosom clung? — 
Blame ye the Bruce? — his brother blamed, 
But shared the weakness, while ashamed, 
With haughty laugh his head he turn'd, 
And dash'd away the tear he scorn'd.3° 

XXI. 

'Tis morning, and the Convent bell 
Long time had ceased its matin knell, 

Within thy walls, Saint Bride ! 
An aged Sister sought the cell 
Assign'd to Lady Isabel, 

And hurriedly she cried, 
"Haste, gentle Lady, haste — there waits 
A noble stranger at the gates ; 
Saint Bride's poor vot'ress ne^er has seen 
A Knight of such a princely mien ; 
His errand, as he bade me tell, 
Is with the Lady Isabel." 
The princess rose. — for on her knee 
Low bent she told her rosary, — 
" Let him by thee his purpose teach ; 
I may not give a stranger speech." — 
" Saint Bride forefend, thou royal Maid ! ' 
The portress cross' d herself, and said, 



1 ' Not to be prioress might I 

Debate his will, his suit deny."— 

" Has earthly show then, simple fool, 

Power o'er a sister of thy rule? 

And art thou, like the worldly train, 

Subdued by splendours light and vain?" — 

XXII. 

' ' No, Lady ! in old eyes like mine, 

Gauds have no glitter, gems no shine ; 

Nor grace his rank attendants vain, 

One youthful page is all his train. 

It is the form, the eye, the word, 

The bearing of that stranger Lord ; 

His stature, manly, bold, and tall, 

Built like a castle's battled wall, 

Yet moulded in such just degrees, 

His giant strength seems lightsome ease. 

Close as the tendrils of the vine 

His locks upon his forehead twine, 

Jet-black, save where some touch of gray 

Has ta'en the youthful hue away. 

Weather and war their rougher trace 

Have left on that majestic face ; — 

But 'tis his dignity of eye ! 

There, if a suppliant, would I fly, 

Secure, 'mid danger, wrongs, and grief, 

Of sympathy, redress, relief — 

That glance, if guilty, would I dread 

More than the doom that spoke me 

dead!"— 
" Enough, enough, the princess cried, 
" 'Tis Scotland's hope, her joy, her pride! 
To meaner front was ne'er assign'd 
Such mastery o'er the common mind — 
Bestow'd thy high designs to aid, 
How long, O Heaven ! how long de- 

lay'd !— 
Haste, Mona, haste, to introduce 
My darling brother, royal Bruce ! " 



They met like friends who part in pain, 
And meet in doubtful hope again. 
But when subdued that fitful swell, 
The Bruce survey'd the humble cell ! — 
" And this is thine, poor Isabel ! — 
That pallet-couch, and naked wall, 
For room of state, and bed of pall ; 
For costly robes and jewels rare, 
A string of beads and zone of hair ; 
And for the trumpet's sprightly call 
To sport or banquet, grove or hall, 
The bell's grim voice divides thy care, 
'Twixt hours of penitence and prayer !— 
O ill for thee, my royal claim 
From the First David's sainted name* 



2S4 



SCOTT'S TOETICAL WORKS. 



for thee, that while he sought 
His right, thy brother feebly fought !" — 

xxiv. 
" Now lay these v. tin regrets aside, 
And be the unshaken Bruce!" she cried. 
" For more 1 glory to have shared 
The woes thy venturous spirit dared, 
When raising first thy valiant band 
In rescue of thy native land, 
Than had fair Fortune set me down 
The partner of an empire's crown. 
And grieve not that on Pleasure's stream 
No more I drive in giddy dream, 
For Heaven the erring pilot knew, 
And from the gulf the vessel drew, 
Tried me with judgments stern and great, 
My house's ruin, thy defeat, 
Poor Nigel's death, till, tamed, I own, 
My hopes are fix'd on Heaven alone ; 
Nor e er shall earthly prospects win 
My heart to this vain world of sin." — 

XXV. 

" Nay, Isabel, for such stern choice, 

First wilt thou wait thy brother's voice ; 

Then ponder if in convent scene 

No softer thoughts might intervene — 

Say they were of that unknown Knight, 

Victor in Woodstock's tourney-fight — 

Nay, if his name such blush you owe, 

Victorious o'er a fairer foe ! " 

Truly his penetrating eye 

Hath caught that blush's passing dye, — 

Like the last beam of evening thrown 

On a white cloud, — just seen and gone. 

Soon with calm cheek and steady eye, 

The princess made composed reply . — 

" I guess my brother's meaning well; 

For not so silent is the cell, 

But we have heard the islesmen all 

Arm in thy cause at Ronald's call, 

And mine eye proves that Knight unknown 

And the brave Island Lord are one. — 

Had then his suit been earlier made, 

In his own name, with thee to aid, 

(But that his plighted faith forbade,) 

1 know not . . . But thy page so near? — 

This is no tale for menial's ear." 



Still stood that page, as far apart 

As the small cell would space afford ; 

With dizzy eye and bursting heart, 
He leant his weight on Brace's sword, 

The monarch's mantle too he bore, 

And drew the fold his visage o'er. 



" Fear not for him — in murderous strife," 

Said Bruce, " his warning saved my life; 

Full seldom parts he from my side, 

And in his silence I confide, 

Since he can tell no tale again. 

He is a boy of gentle strain, 

And I have purposed he shall dwell 

In Augustin the chaplain's cell, 

And wait on thee, my Isabel. — 

Mind not his tears ; I've seen them flow, 

As in the thaw dissolves the snow. 

'Tis a kind youth, but fanciful, 

Unfit against the tide to pull, 

And those that with the Bruce would sail, 

Must learn to strive with stream and gale. — 

But forward, gentle Isabel — 

My answer for Lord Ronald tell." — 

XXVII. 

" This answer be to Ronald given — 

The heart he asks is fix'd on heaven. 

My love was like a summer flower, 

That wither'd in the wintry hour, 

Born but of vanity and pride, 

And with these sunny visions died. 

If further press his suit — then say, 

He should his plighted troth obey, 

Troth plighted both with ring and word, 

And sworn on crucifix and sword. — 

Oh, shame thee, Robert! I have seen 

Thou hast a woman's guardian been! 

Even in extremity's dread hour, 

When press'd on thee the Southern power, 

And safety, to all human sight, 

Was only found in rapid flight, 

Thou heard'st a wretched female plain 

In agony of travail -pain, 

And thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon the instant turn and stand, 

And dare the worst the foe might do, 

Rather than, like a knight untrue, 

Leave to pursuers merciless 

A woman in her last distress.3 1 

And wilt thou now deny thine aid 

To an oppress' d and injured maid. 

Even plead for Ronald's perfidy, 

And press his fickle faith on me ? — 

So witness Heaven, as true I vow, 

Had I those earthly feelings now, 

Which could my former bosom move 

Ere taught to set its hopes above, 

I'd spurn each proffer he could bring, 

Till at my feet he laid the ring, 

The nng and spousal contract both, 

And fair acquittal of his oath, 

By her who brooks his perjured scorn, 

The ill-requited Maid of Lorn ! " 



1 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



285 



XXVIII 

With sudden impulse forward sprung 
The page, and on her neck he hung ; 
Then, recollected instantly, 
His head he stoop'd, and bent his knee, 
Kiss'd twice the hand of Isabel, 
Arose, and sudden left the cell. — 
The princess, loosen'd from his hold, 
Blush d angry at his bearing bold ; 

But good King Robert cried, 
"Chafe not — by signs he speaks his mind, 
He heard the plan my care design'd, 

Nor could his transports hide. — 
But, sister, now bethink thee well ; 
No easy choice the convent cell ! 
Trust, I shall play no tyrant part, 
Either to force thy hand or heart, 
Or suffer that Lord Ronald scorn, 
Or wrong for thee, the Maid of Lorn. 
But think, — not long the time has been, 
That thou wert wont to sigh unseen, 
And wouldst the ditties best approve, 
That told some lay of hapless love. 
Now are thy wishes in thy power, 
And thou art bent on cloister bower ! 
! if our Edward knew the change, 
How would his busy satire range, 
With many a sarcasm varied still 
On woman's wish, and woman's will ! " — 

XXIX. 
"Brother, I well believe," she said, 
" Even so would Edward's part be play'd. 
Kindly in heart, in word severe, 
A foe to thought, and grief, and fear, 
He holds his humour uncontroll'd ; 
But thou art of another mould. 
Say then to Ronald, as I say, 
Unless before my feet he lay 
The ring which bound the faith he swore, 
By Edith freely yielded o'er, 
He moves his suit to me no more. 
Nor do I promise, even if now 
He stood absolved of spousal vow, 
That I would change my purpose made 
To shelter me in holy shade. — 
Brother, for little space, farewell ! 
To other duties warns the bell! " — 

xxx. 

" Lost to the world," King Robert said, 
When he had left the royal maid, 
" Lost to the world by lot severe, 
O what a gem lies buried here, 
Nipp'd by misfortune's cruel frost, 
The buds of fair affection lost ! 
But what have I with love to do ? 
Far sterner cares my lot pursue. 



— Pent in this isle we may not lie, 

Nor would it long our wants supply. 

Right opposite, the mainland towers 

Of my own Turnberry court our powers — 

— Might not my father's beadsman hoar, 

Cuthbert, who dwells upon the shore, 

Kindle a signal-flame, to show 

The time propitious for the blow? 

It shall be so — some friend shall bear 

Our mandate with despatch and care ; 

— Edward shall find the messenger. 

That fortress ours, the island fleet 

May on the coast of Carrick meet. — 

O Scotland ! shall it e'er be mine 

To wreak thy wrongs in battle-line, 

To raise my victor-head, and see 

Thy hills, thy dales, thy people free, — 

That glance of bliss is all I crave, 

Betwixt my labours and my grave! " 

Then down the hill he slowly went, 

Oft pausing on the steep descent, 

And reach'd the spot where his bold train 

Held rustic camp upon the plain. 



CANTO FIFTH. 



1. 



On fair Loch-Ranza stream' d the early 

day, 
Thin wreaths of cottage smoke are up- 
ward curl'd 
From the lone hamlet, which her inland 

bay 
And circling mountains sever from the 

world. 
And there the fisherman his sail unfurl' d, 
The goat-herd drove his kids to steep 

Ben-Ghoil, 
Before the hut the dame her spindle 

twirl'd, 
Courting the sunbeam as she plied her 

toil, — 
For, wake where'er he may, Man wakes 

to care and coil. 

But other duties call'd each convent 
maid, 

Roused by the summons of the moss- 
grown bell , 

Sung were the matins, and the mass 
was said, 

And every sister sought her separate cell, 

Such was the rule, her rosary to tell. 

And Isabel has knelt in lonely prayer ; 



286 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



J 



The sunbeam, through the narrow 

lattice fell 
Upon the snowy neck and long dark 

hair, 
As stoop'd her gentle head in meek 

devotion there. 



She raised her eyes, that duty done, 
When glanced upon the pavement-stone, 
Gemm'd and enchased, a golden ring, 
Bound to a scroll with silken string, 
With few brief words inscribed to tell, 
" This for the Lady Isabel." 
Within, the writing further bore, 
" 'Twas with this ring his plight he swore, 
With this his promise I restore ; 
To her who can the heart command, 
Well may I yield the plighted hand. 
And O ! for better fortune born, 
Grudge not a passing sigh to mourn 
Her who was Edith once of Lorn! " 
One single flash of glad surprise 
Just glanced from Isabel's dark eyes, 
But vanish'd in the blush of shame, 
That, as its penance, instant came. 
" O thought unworthy of my race ! 
Selfish, ungenerous, mean, and base, 
A moment's throb of joy to own, 
That rose upon her hopes o'erthrown ! — 
Thou pledge of vows too well believed, 
Of man ingrate and maid deceived,' 
Think not thy lustre here shall gain 
Another heart to hope in vain ! 
For thou shalt rest, thou tempting gaud, 
Where worldly thoughts are overawed, 
And worldly splendours sink debased." 
Then by the cross the ring she placed. 

in. 
Next rose the thought, — its owner far, 
How came it here through bolt and bar? — 
But the dim lattice is ajar. — 
She looks abroad, the morning dew 
A light short step had brush'd anew, 

And there were foot-prints seen 
On the carved buttress rising still, 
Till on the mossy window-sill, 

Their track effaced the green. 
The ivy twigs were torn and fray'd, 
As if some climber's steps to aid. — 
But who the hardy messenger, 
Whose venturous path these signs infer? — 
"Strange doubts are mine ! — Mona, draw 

nigh; 
— Nought 'scapes old Mona's curious eye — 
What strangers, gentle mother, say, 
Have sought these holy walls to-day?" — 



' ' None, Lady, none of note or name ; 
Only your brother's foot-page came, 
At peep of dawn — I pray'd him pass 
To chape! where they said the mass; 
But like an arrow he shot by, 
And tears seem'd bursting from his eye. 



The truth at once on Isabel, 

As darted by a sunbeam, fell, 

" Tis Edith's self! — her speechless woe, 

Her form, her looks, the secret show ! 

— Instant, good Mona, to the bay, 

And to my royal brother say, 

I do conjure him seek my cell, 

With that mute page he loves so well." — 

" What ! know'st thou not his warlike host 

At break of day has left our coast? 

My old eyes saw them from the tower. 

At eve they couch'd in greenwood bower, 

At dawn a bugle signal, made 

By their bold Lord, their ranks array'd ; 

Up sprung the spears through bush and 

tree, 
No time for benedicite ! 
Like deer, that, rousing from their lair, 
Just shake the devvdrops from their hair, 
And toss their armed crests aloft, 
Such matins theirs!" — "Good mother, 

• soft— 
Where does my brother bend his way? " 
"As I have heard, for Brodick-Bay, 
Across the isle — of barks a score 
Lie there, 'tis said, to waft them o'er, 
On sudden news, to Carrick-shore." — 
" If such their purpose, deep the need," 
Said anxious Isabel, "of speed ! 
Call Father Augustin, good dame." 
The nun obey'd, the Father came. 

v. 
" Kind Father, hie without delay, 
Across the hills to Brodick-Bay. 
This message to the Bruce be given ; 
I pray him, by his hopes of Heaven, 
That, till he speak with me, he stay ! — 
Or, if his haste brook no delay, 
That he deliver, on my suit, 
Into thy charge that stripling mute. 
Thus prays his sister Isabel, 
For causes more than she may tell — 
Away, good father ! and take heed, 
That life and death are on thy speed." 
His cowl the good old priest did on, 
Took his piked staff and sandall'd shoon, 
And, like a palmer bent by eld, 
O'er moss and moor his journey held. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



287 



Heavy and dull the foot of age, 
And nigged was the pilgrimage ; 
But none was there beside, whose care 
Might such important message bear. 
Through birchen copse he wander' d slow, 
Stunted and sapless, thin and low ; 
By many a mountain stream he pass'd, 
From the tall cliffs in tumult cast, 
Dashing to foam their waters dun, 
And sparkling in the summer sun. 
Round his gray head the wild curlew 
In many a fearless circle flew. 
O'er chasms he pass'd, where fractures 

wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride ; 3 2 
He cross'd his brow beside the stone 
Where Druids erst heard victims groan, 
And at the cairns upon the wild, 
O'er many a heathen hero piled, 
He breathed a timid prayer for those 
Who died ere Shiloh's sun aiose. 
Beside Macfarlane's Cross he staid, 
There told his hours within the shade, 
And at the stream his thirst allay'd. 
Thence onward journeying, slowly still, 
As evening closed he reach'd the hill, 
Where, rising through the woodland green, 
Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen, 
From Hastings, late their English lord, # 
Douglas had won them by the sword. 33 
The sun that sunk behind the isle, 
Now tinged them with a parting smile. 

VII. 

But though the beams of light decay, 
'Twas bustle all in Brodick-Bay. 
The Brace's followers crowd the shore, 
And boats and barges some unmoor, 
Some raise the sail, some seize the oar ; 
Their eyes oft turn'd where glimmer'd far 
What might have seem'd an early star 
On heaven's blue arch, save that its light 
Was all too flickering, fierce, and bright. 
Far distant in the south, the ray 
Shone pale amid retiring day, 

But as, on Carrick shore, 
Dim seen in outline faintly blue, 
The shades of evening closer drew, 
It kindled more and more. 
The monk's slow steps now press the sands, 
And now amid a scene he stands, 

Full strange to churchman's eye ; 
Warriors, who, arming for the fight, 
Rivet and clasp their harness light, 
And twinkling spears, and axes bright, 
And helmets flashing high. 



Oft, too, with unaccustom'd ears, 
A language much unmeet he hears,3* 

While, hastening all on board, 
As stormy as the swelling surge 
That mix'd its roar, the leaders urge 
Their followers to the ocean verge, 

With many a haughty word. 

VIII. 

Through that wild throng the Father pass'd, 

And reach'd the Royal Bruce at last. 

He leant against a stranded boat, 

That the approaching tide must float, 

And counted every rippling wave, 

As higher yet her sides they lave, 

And oft the distant fire he eyed, 

And closer yet his hauberk tied, 

And loosen'd in its sheath his brand. 

Edward and Lennox were at hand, 

Douglas and Ronald had the care 

The soldiers to the barks to share. — 

The Monk approach' d and homage paid ; 

" And art thou come," King Robert said, 

" So far to bless us ere we part?" — 

— " My Liege, and with a loyal heart ! — 

But other charge I have to tell," — 

And spoke the hest of Isabel. 

— "Now by Saint Giles," the monarch 

cried, 
' ' This moves me much ! this morning tide, 
I sent the stripling to Saint Bride, 
With my commandment there to bide." — 
— " Thither he came the portress show'd, 
But there, my Liege, made brief abode." — 

IX. 

" 'Twas I," said Edward, " found employ 

Of nobler import for the boy. 

Deep pondering in my anxious mind, 

A fitting messenger to find, 

To bear thy written mandate o'er 

To Cuthbert on the Carrick shore, 

I chanced, at early dawn, to pass 

The chapel gate to snatch a mass. 

1 found the stripling on a tomb 

Low-seated, weeping for the doom 

That gave his youth to convent gloom. 

I told my purpose, and his eyes 

Flash'd joyful at the glad surprise. 

He bounded to the skiff, the sail 

Was spread before a prosperous gale, 

And well my charge he hath obey'd ; 

For, see ! the ruddy signal made, 

That Clifford, with his merry-men all, 

Guards carelessly our father's hall. — 

x. 
"O wild of thought, and hard of heart !' 
Answer'd the Monarch, "on a part 



283 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Of such deep danger to employ 
A mute, an orphan, and a boy! 
Unfit for tliglu, unfit for strife, 
Without a tongue to plead for life! 
Now, were my right testored by Heaven, 
Edward, my crown I would have given, 
Ere, thrust on such adventure wild, 
I periil'd thus the helpless child." — 
— Offended half, and half submiss, 
"Brother and Liege, of blame like this," 
Edward replied, " I little dream'd. 
A stranger messenger, I deem'd, 
Might safest seek the beadsman's cell, 
Where all thy squires are known so well. 
Noteless his presence, sharp his sense, 
His imperfection his defence. 
If seen, none can his errand guess; 
If ta'en, his words no tale express — 
Methinks, too, yonder beacon's shine 
Might expiate greater fault than mine." — 
"Rash," said King Robert, "was the 

deed — 
But it is done. — Embark with speed ! — 
Good Father, say to Isabel 
How this unhappy chance befell ; 
If well we thrive on yonder shore, 
Soon shall my care her page restore. 
Our greeting to our sister bear, 
And think of us in mass and prayer." — 

XI. 
"Aye!" said the Priest, "while this poor 

hand 
Can chalice raise or cross command, 
While my old voice has accents' use, 
Can Augustin forget the Bruce ! " 
Then to his side Lord Ronald press'd, 
And whisper'd, ' ' Bear thou this request, 
That when by Bruce's side I fight, 
For Scotland's crown and freedom's right, 
The princess grace her knight to bear 
Some token of her favouring care ; 
It shall be shown where England's best 
May shrink to see it on my crest. 
And for the boy— since weightier care 
For royal Bruce the times prepare, 
The helpless youth is Ronald's charge, 
His couch my plaid, his fence my targe." 
He ceased ; for many an eager hand 
Had urged the barges from the strand. 
Their number was a score and ten, 
They bore thrice threescore chosen men. 
With such small force did Bruce at last 
The die for death or empire cast ! 

XII. 

Now on the darkening main afloat, 
Ready and mann'd rocks every boat: 



Beneath their oars the ocean's might 
Was dash'd to sparks of glimmering light. 
Faint and more faint, as off they bore, 
Their armour glanced against the shore 
And, mingled with the dashing tide, 
Their murmuring voices distant died. — 
"God speed them!" said the Priest, as 

dark 
On distant billows glides each bark ; 
"O Heaven! when swords for freedom 

shine, 
And monarch's right, the cause is thine I 
Edge doubly every patriot blow ! 
Beat down the banners of the foe ! 
And be it to the nations known, 
That Victory is from God alone ! " 
As up the hill his path he drew, 
He turn'd his blessings to renew, 
Oft turn'd, till on the darken'd coast 
All traces of their course were lost ; 
Then slowly bent to Brodick tower, 
To shelter for the evening hour. 



In night the fairy prospects sink, 
Where Cumray's isles with verdant link 
Close the fair entrance of the Clyde ; 
The woods of Bute, no more descried, 
Are gone— and on the placid sea 
The rowers ply their task with glee, 
While hands that knightly lances bore 
Impatient aid the labouring oar. 
The half-faced moon shone dim and 

pale, 
And glanced against the whiten'd sail 
But on that ruddy beacon-light 
Each steersman kept the helm aright, 
And oft, for such the King's command, 
That all at once might reach the strand, 
From boat to boat loud shout and hail 
Warn'd them to crowd or slacken sail. 
South and by west the armada bore, 
And near at length the Carrick shore. 
As less and less the distance grows, 
High and more high the beacon rose ; 
The light, that seem'd a twinkling star, 
Now blazed portentous, fierce, and far. 
Dark-red the heaven above it glow'd, 
Dark-red the sea beneath it flow'd, 
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim, 
In blood-red light her islets swim ; 
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave, 
Dropp'd from their crags on plashing wave 
The deer to distant covert drew, 
The black-cock deem'd it day, and crew 
Like some tall castle given to flame, 
O'er half the land the lustre came. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



289 



'• Now, good my Liege, and brother sage, 
What think ye of mine elfin page?" — 
" Row on !" the noble King replied, 
"We'll learn the truth whate'er betide; 
Yet sure the beadsman and the child 
Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild." 

XIV. 
With that the boats approach 'd the land, 
But Edward's grounded on the sand ; 
The eager Knight leap'd in the sea 
Waist-deep, and first on shore was he, 
Though every barge's hardy band 
Contended which should gain the land, 
When that strange light, which, seen afar, 
Seem'd steady as the polar star, 
Now, like a prophet's fiery chair, 
Seem'd travelling the realms of air. 
Wide o'er the sky the splendour glows, 
As that portentous meteor rose ; 
Helm, axe, and falchion glitter'd bright, 
And in the red and dusky light 
His comrade's face each warrior saw, 
Nor marvell'd it was pale with awe. 
Then high in air the beams were lost, 
And darkness sunk upon the coast. — 
Ronald to Heaven a prayer address'd, 
And Douglas cross'd his dauntless breast ; 
" Saint James protect us ! " Lennox cried, 
But reckless Edward spoke aside, 
" Deem'st thou, Kirkpatrick, in that flame, 
Red Comyn's angry spirit came, 
Or would thy dauntless heart endure 
Once more to make assurance sure ? " 
" Hush ! " said the Bruce, " we soon shall 

know, 
If this be sorcerer's empty show, 
Or stratagem of southern foe. 
The moon shines out— upon the sand 
Let every leader rank his band." 



Faintly the moon's pale beams supply 
That ruddy light's unnatural dye; 
The dubious cold reflection lay 
On the wet sands and quiet bay. 
Beneath the rocks King Robert drew 
His scatter'd files to order due, 
Till shield compact and serried spear 
In the cool light shone blue and clear. 
Then down a path that sought the tide, 
That speechless page was seen to glide ; 
He knelt him lowly on the sand, 
And gave a scroll to Robert's hand. 
"A torch," the Monarch cried, "What 

ho! 
Now shall we Cuthbert's tidings know." 



But evil news the letters bare, 

The Clifford's force was strong and ware, 

Augmented, too, that very morn, 

By mountaineers who came with Lorn. 

Long harrow'd by oppressor's hand, 

Courage and faith had fled the land, 

And over Carrick, dark and deep, 

Had sunk dejection's iron sleep. — 

Cuthbert had seen that beacon-flame, 

Unwitting from what source it came. 

Doubtful of perilous event, 

Edward's mute messenger he sent, 

If Bruce deceived should venture o'er, 

To warn him from the fatal shore. 

XVI. 
As round the torch the leaders crowd, 
Bruce read these chilling news aloud. 
" What counsel, nobles, have we now? — 
To ambush us in greenwood bough, 
And take the chance which fate may send 
To bring our enterprise to end, 
Or shall we turn us to the main 
As exiles, and embark again ? " — 
Answer'd fierce Edward, ' ' Hap what may, 
In Carrick, Carrick's Lord must stay. 
I would not minstrels told the tale, 
Wildfire or meteor made us quail." — 
Answer'd the Douglas, " If my Liege 
May win yon walls by storm or siege, 
Then were each brave and patriot heart 
Kindled of new for loyal part." — 
Answer'd Lord Roland, " Not for shame 
Would I that aged Torquil came, 
And found, for all our empty boast, 
Without a blow we fled the coast. 
I will not credit that this land, 
So famed for warlike heart and hand, 
The nurse of Wallace and of Bruce, 
Will long with tyrants hold a truce." — 
' ' Prove we our fate — the brunt we'll bide ! " 
So Boyd and Haye and Lennox cried ; 
So said, so vow'd, the leaders ail ; 
So Bruce resolved : "And in my hall 
Since the Bold Southern make their home, 
The hour of payment soon shall come, 
When with a rough and rugged host 
Clifford may reckon to his cost. * 
Meantime, through well-known bosk and 

dell, 
I'll lead where we may shelter well." 

XVII. 

Now ask you whence that wondrous light, 
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight! — 
It ne'er was known 33 — yet gray-hair'd eld 
A superstitious credence held, 
19 



_l. 



290 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That never did a mortal hand 
Wake its broad glare on Carrick strand ; 
Nay, and that on the self-same night 
When Bruce cross'd o'er, still gleams the 

light 
Yearly it gleams o'er mount and moor, 
And glittering wave and crimson'd shore — 
But whether beam celestial lent 
By Heaven to aid the King's descent, 
Or fire hell-kindled from beneath, 
To lure him to defeat and death, 
Or were it but some meteor strange, 
Of such as oft through midnight range, 
Startling the traveller late and lone, 
I know not— and it ne'er was known. 

XVIII. 
Now up the rocky pass they drew, 
And Roland, to his promise true, 
Still made his arm the stripling's stay, 
To aid him on the rugged way. 
" Now cheer thee, simple Amadine! 
Why throbs that silly heart of thine ? " — 
— That name the pirates to their slave 
(In Gaelic 'tis the Changeling) gave — 
' ' Dost thou not rest thee on rny arm ? 
Do not my plaid-folds hold thee warm ? 
Hath not the wild bull's treble hide 
This targe for thee and me supplied ? 
Is not Clan-Colla-'s sword of steel ? 
And, trembler, canst thou terror feel ! 
Cheer thee, and still that throbbing heart ; 
From Ronald's guard thou shalt not part." 
— O ! many a shaft, at random sent, 
Finds mark the archer little meant ! 
And many a word, at random spoken, 
May soothe or wound a heart that's 

broken ! 
Half soothed, half grieved, half terrified, 
Close drew the page to Ronald's side ; 
A wild delirious thrill of joy 
Was in that hour of agony, 
As up the steepy pass he strove, 
Fear, toil, and sorrow, lost in love ! 

XIX. 

The barrier of that iron shore, 
The rock's steep iedge, is now climb'd o'er ; 
And from the castle's distant wall, 
From tower to tower the warders call : 
The sound swings over land and sea, 
And marks a watchful enemy.— 
They gain'd the Chase, a wide domain 
Left for the Castle's sylvan reign, 
(Seek not the scene — the axe, the plough, 
The boor's dull fence, have marr'd it now,) 
But then, soft swept in velvet green 
The plain with many a glade between, 



Whose tangled alleys far invade 
The depth of the brown forest shade. 
Here the tall fern obscured the lawn, 
Fair shelter for the sportive fawn, 
There, tufted close with copsewood green, 
Was many a swelling hillock seen ; 
And all around was verdure meet 
For pressure of the fairies' feet. 
The glossy holly loved the park, 
The yew-tree lent its shadow dark, 
And many an old oak, worn and bare, 
With all its shiver' d boughs, was there. 
Lovely between, the moonbeams fell 
On lawn and hillock, glade and dell. 
The gallant Monarch sigh'd to see 
These glades so loved in childhood free. 
Bethinking that, as outlaw now, 
He ranged beneath the forest bough. 

xx. 
Fast o'er the moonlight Chase they sped. 
Well knew the band that measured tread, 
When, in retreat or in advance, 
The serried warriors move at once ; 
And evil were the luck, if dawn 
Descried them on the open lawn. 
Copses they' traverse, brooks they cross, 
Strain up the bank and o'er the moss. 
From the exhausted page's brow 
Cold drops of toil are streaming now ; 
With effort faint and lengthen'd pause, 
His weary step the stripling draws. 
" Nay, droop not yet ! " the warrior said ; 
" Come, let me give thee ease and aid ! 
Strong are mine arms, and little care 
A weight so slight as thine to bear. — 
What ! wilt thou not ? — capricious boy ! 
Then thine own limbs and strength employ. 
Pass but this night, and pass thy care, 
I'll place thee with a lady fair, 
Where thou shalt tune thy lute to tell 
How Ronald loves fair Isabel ! " 
Worn out, dishearten'd, and dismay'd, 
Here Amadine let go the plaid : 
His trembling limbs their aid refuse, 
He sunk among the midnight dews ! 

XXI. 

What may be done ; — the night is gone — 

The Bruce's band moves swiftly on — 

Eternal shame, if at the brunt 

Lord Ronald grace not battle's front ! — 

" See yonder oak, within whose trunk 

Decay a darken'd cell hath sunk ; 

Enter and rest thee there a space, 

Wrapt in my plaid thy limbs, thy face. 

I will not be, believe me, far ; 

But must not quit the ranks of war. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



291 



Well will I mark the bosky bourne, 

And soon, to guard thee hence, return. — 

Nay, weep not so, thou simple boy ! 

But sleep in peace, and wake in joy." 

In sylvan lodging close bestow'd, 

He placed the page, and onward strode 

With strength put forth, o'er moss and 

brook, 
And soon the marching band o'ertook. 

XXII. 

Thus strangely left, long sobb'd and wept 
The page, till, wearied out, he slept — 
A rough voice waked his dream — " Nay, 

here, 
Here by this thicket, pass'd the deer — 
Beneath that oak old Ryno staid — 
What have we here? — a Scottish plaid, 
And in its folds a stripling laid ? — 
Come forth ! thy name and business tell ! — 
What, silent? — then I guess thee well, 
The spy that sought old Cuthbert's cell, 
Wafted from Arran yester morn — 
Come, comrades, we will straight return. 
Our Lord may choose the rack should 

teach 
To this young lurcher use of speech. 
Thy bow-string till I bind him fast." — 
" Nay, but he weeps and stands aghast ; 
Unbound we'll lead him, fear it not ; 
'Tis a fair stripling, though a Scot." 
The hunters to the castle sped, 
And there the hapless captive led. 

XXIII. 
Stout Clifford in the castle-court 
Prepared him for the morning sport ; 
And now with Lorn held deep discourse, 
Now gave command for hound and horse. 
War-steeds and palfreys paw'd the ground, 
And many a deer-dog howl'd around. 
To Amadine, Lorn's well-known word 
Replying to that Southern Lord, 
Mix'd with this clanging din, might seem 
The phantasm of a fever'd dream. 
The tone upon his ringing ears 
Came like the sound which fancy hears, 
When in rude waves or roaring winds 
Some words of woe the muser finds, 
Until more loudly and more near, 
Their speech arrests the page's ear. 

XXIV. 

"And was she thus," said Clifford, "lost? 
The priest should rue it to his cost ! 
What says the monk? " — " The holy Sire 
Owns, that in masquer's quaint attire 



She sought his skiff, disguised, unknown 
To all except to him alone. 
But, says the priest, a bark from Lorn 
Laid them aboard that very morn, 
And pirates seized her for their prey. 
He proffer'd ransom-gold to pay, 
And they agreed — but ere told o'er, 
The winds blow loud, the billows roar ; 
They sever'd, and they met no more. 
He deems — such tempest vex'd th? coast- 
Ship, crew, and fugitive were lost. 
So let it be, with the disgrace 
And scandal of her lofty race ! 
Thrice better she had ne'er been born, 
Than brought her infamy on Lorn! " 

XXV. 

Lord Clifford now the captive spied ; — 
"Whom, Herbert, hast thou there?" he 

cried. 
"A spy we seized within the Chase, 
A hollow oak his lurking-place." — 
" What tidings can the youth afford ? " — 
"He plays the mute." — "Then noose a 

- cord — 
Unless brave Lorn reverse the doom 
For his plaid's sake." — " Clan-Colla's 

loom," 
Said Lorn, whose careless glances trace 
Rather the vesture than the face, 
" Clan-Colla's dames such tartans twine; 
Wearer nor plaid claims care of mine. 
Give him, if my advice you crave, 
His own scathed oak ; and let him wave 
In air, unless, by terror wrung, 
A frank confession find his tongue. — 
Nor shall he die without his rite; 
— Thou, Angus Roy, attend the sight, 
And give Clan-Colla's dirge thy breath, 
As they convey him to his death." — 
' ' O brother ! cruel to the last ! ' ' 
Through the poor captive's bosom pass'd 
The thought, but, to his purpose true, 
He said not, though he sigh'd, " Adieu ! " 

XXVI. 

And will he keep his purpose still, 

In sight of that last closing ill, 

When one poor breath, one single word, 

May freedom, safety, life afford ? 

Can he resist the instinctive call, 

For life that bids us barter all ? — 

Love, strong as death, his heart hath 

steel' d, 
His nerves hath strung— he will not yield I 
Since that poor breath, that little word, 
May yield Lord Ronald to the sword. — 



292 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Clan-Colla's dirge is pealing wide, 
The grisly headsman's by his side; 
Along the greenwood Chase they bend, 
And now their march has ghastly end ! 
That Old and shatter'd oak beneath, 
They destine for the place of death. 
— What thoughts are his, while all in 

vain 
His eye for aid explores the plain ? 
What thoughts, while, with a dizzy ear, 
He hears the death-prayer mutter'd near ? 
And must he die such death accurst, 
Or will that bosom-secret burst ? 
Cold on his brow breaks terror's dew, 
His trembling lips are livid blue ; 
The agony of parting life 
Has nought to match that moment's strife ! 

XXVII. 

But other witnesses are nigh, 

Who mock at fear, and death defy ! 

Soon as the dire lament was play'd. 

It waked the lurking ambuscade. 

The Island Lord look'd forth, and spied 

The cause, and loud in fury cried, 

" By Heaven, they lead the page to die, 

And mock me in his agony ! 

They shall abye it ! " — On his arm 

Bruce laid strong grasp, " They shall not 

harm 
A ringlet of the stripling's hair ; 
But, till I give the word, forbear. 
— Douglas, lead fifty of our force 
Up yonder hollow water-course, 
And couch thee midway on the wold, 
Between the flyers and their hold : 
A spear above the copse display'd, 
Be signal of the ambush made. 
— Edward, with forty spearmen, straight 
Through yonder copse approach the gate, 
And, when thou hear'st the battle-din, 
Rush forward, and the passage win, 
Secure the drawbridge— storm the port, 
And man and guard the castle-court. — 
The rest move slowly forth with me, 
In shelter of the forest-tree, 
Till Douglas at his post I see." 

XXVIII. 
Like war-dogs eager to rush on, 
Compell'd to wait the signal blown, 
Hid, and scarce hid, by greenwood bough, 
Trembling with rage, stands Ronald now, 
And in his grasp his sword gleams blue, 
Soon to be dyed with deadlier hue. — 
Meanwhile the Bruce, with steady eye, 
Sees the dark death-train moving by, 



And, heedful, measures oft the space 
The Douglas and his band must trace, 
Ere they can reach their destined ground. 
Now sinks the dirge's wailing sound, 
Now cluster round the direful tree 
That slow and solemn company, 
While hymn mistuned and mutter'd 

prayer 
The victim for his fate prepare. — 
What glances o'er the greenwood shade ? 
The spear that marks the ambuscade. 
" Now, noble Chief! I leave thee loose ; 
Upon them, Ronald ! " said the Bruce. 

XXIX. 

"The Bruce, the Bruce! " to well-known 

cry 
His native rocks and woods reply. 
' ' The Bruce, the Bruce ! " in that dread 

word 
The knell of hundred deaths was heard. 
The astonish'd Southern gazed at first, 
Where the wild tempest was to burst, 
That waked in that presaging name. 
Before, behind, around it came ! 
Half-arm'd, surprised, on every side 
Hemm'd in, hew'd down, they bled and 

died. 
Deep in the ring the Bruce engaged, 
And fierce Clan-Colla's broadsword raged ! 
Full soon the few who fought were sped, 
Nor better was their lot who fled, 
And met, 'mid terror's wild career, 
The Douglas's redoubted spear ! 
Two hundred yeomen on that morn 
The castle left, and none return. 

XXX. 

Not on their flight press' d Ronald's brand, 
A gentler duty claim 'd his hand. 
He raised the page, where on the plain 
His fear had sunk him with the slain : 
And twice, that morn, surprise well near 
Betray'd the secret kept by fear ; 
Once, when, with life returning, came 
To the boy's lip Lord Ronald's name, 
And hardly recollection drown'd 
The accents in a murmuring sound : 
And once, when scarce he could resist 
The Chieftain's care to loose the vest, 
Drawn tightly o'er his labouring breast. 
But then the Bruce's bugle blew, 
For martial work was yet to do. 

XXXI. 
A harder task fierce Edward waits. 
Ere signal given, the castle gates 
His fury had assail'd ; 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



293 



Such was his wonted reckless mood, 
Yet desperate valour oft made good, 
Even by its daring, venture rude, 

Where prudence might have fail'd. 
Upon the bridge his strength he threw, 
And struck the iron chain in two, 

By which its planks arose; 
The warder next his axe's edge 
Struck down upon the threshold ledge, 
'Twixt door and post a ghastly wedge ! 

The gate they may not close. 
Well fought the Southern in the fray, 
Clifford and Lorn fought well that day, 
But stubborn Edward forced his way 

Against a hundred foes. 
Loud came the cry, "The Bruce, the 

Bruce!'' 
No hope or in defence or truce, 

Fresh combatants pour in ; 
Mad with success, and drunk with gore, 
They drive the struggling foe before, 

And ward on ward they win. 
Unsparing was the vengeful sword, 
And limbs were lopp'd and life-blood 

pour'd, 
The cry of death and conflict roar'd, 

And fearful was the din ! 
The startling horses plunged and flung, 
Clamour'd the dogs till turrets rung, 

Nor sunk the fearful cry, 
Till not a foeman was there found 
Alive, save those who on the ground 

Groan'd in their agony ! 

XXXII. 

The valiant Clifford is no more : 

On Ronald's broadsw ord stream'd his gore, 

But better hap had he of Lorn, 

Who, by the foemen backward borne, 

Yet gain'd with slender train the port, 

Where lay his bark beneath the fort, 

And cut the cable loose. 
Short were his shrift in that debate, 
That hour of fury and of fate, 

If Lorn encounter'd Bruce! 
Then long and loud the victor shout 
From turret and from tower rung out, 

The rugged vaults replied ; 
And from the donjon tower on high, 
The men of Carrick may descry 
Saint Andrew's cross, in blazonry 

Of silver, waving wide ! 

XXXIII. 

The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! 3 6 
— " Welcome, brave friends and comrades 
Welcome to mirth and joy ! [all, 

The first, the last, is welcome here, 



From lord and chieftain, prince and peer, 

To tli is poor speechless boy. 
Great God ! once more my sire's abode 
Is mine — behold the floor I trode 

In tottering infancy! 
And there the vaulted arch, whose sound 
Echoed my joyous shout and bound 
In boyhood, and that rung around 

To youth's unthinking glee ! 
O first, to thee, all-gracious Heaven, 
Then to my friends, my thanks be 

given ! " — 
He paused a space, his brow he cross'd — 
Then on the board his sword he toss'd, 
Yet steaming hot ; with Southern gore 
From hilt to point 'twas crimson'd o'er. 

XXXIV. 

"Bring here," he said, "the mazers four,* 
My noble fathers loved of yore. 
Thrice let them circle round the board, 
The pledge, fair Scotland's rights restored ! 
And he whose lip shall touch the wine, 
Without a vow as true as mine, 
To hold both lands and life at nought, 
Until her freedom shall be bought, — 
Be brand of a disloyal Scot, 
And lasting infamy his lot ! 
Sit, gentle friends ! our hour of glee 
Is brief, we'll spend it joyously ! 
Blithest of all the sun's bright beams, 
When betwixt storm and storm he gleams. 
Well is our country's work begun, 
But more, far more, must yet be done. 
Speed messengers the country through ; 
Arouse old friends, and gather new ; 
Warn Lanark's knights to gird their mail, 
Rouse the brave sons of Teviotdale, 
Let Ettrick's archers sharp their darts, 
The fairest forms, the truest hearts ! 
Call all, call all! from Reeds w air- Path! 
To the wild confines of Cape- Wrath ; 
Wide let the news through Scotland ring,— 
The Northern Eagle claps his wing!" 



CANTO SIXTH. 

I. 
O who, that shared them, ever shall 

forget 
The emotions of the spirit-rousing time, 
When breathless in the mart the couriers 

met, 
Early and late, at evening and at prime ; 



* The mazers four, large drinking cups, or 
goblets. 



294 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When the loud cannon and the merry 

chime 
Hail'd news on news, as field on field 

was won ! 
When Hope, long doubtful, soar'd at 

length sublime, 
And our glad eyes, awake as day begun, 
Watch'd Joy's broad banner rise, to meet 

the rising sun ! 

O these were hours, when thrilling joy 

repaid 
A long, long course of darkness, doubts, 

and fears ! 
The heart-sick faintness of the hope 

delay'd, 
The waste, the woe, the bloodshed, and 

the tears, 
That track'd with terror twenty rolling 

years, 
All was forgot in that blithe jubilee ! 
Her downcast eye even pale Affliction 

rears, 
To sigh a thankful prayer, amid the glee, 
That hail'd the Despot's fall, and peace 

and liberty ! 

Such news o'er Scotland's hills triumph- 
ant rode, 
When 'gainst the invaders turn'd the 

battle's scale, 
When, Brace's banner had victorious 

flow'd 
O'er Loudoun's mountain, and in Ury's 

vale ; 37 
When English blood oft deluged 

Douglas-dale, 3 8 
And fiery Edward routed stout St. 

John,39 
When Randolph's war-cry swell'd the 

southern gale, 4° 
And many a fortress, town, and tower, 

was won, 
And Fame still sounded forth fresh deeds 

of glory done. 



Blithe tidings flew from baron's tower, 
To peasant's cot, to forest bower, 
And waked the solitary cell, 
Where lone Saint Bride's recluses dwell. 
Princess no more, fair Isabel, 
A vot'ress of the order now, 
Say, did the rule that bid thee wear 
Dim veil and woollen scapulaire, 

I And reft thy locks of dark-brown hair, 
That stern and rigid vow, 



Did it condemn the transport high, 
Which glisten'd in thy watery eye, 
When minstrel or when palmer told 
Each fresh exploit of Bruce the bold?- 
And whose the lovely form, that shares 
Thy anxious hopes, thy fears, thy prayers? 
No sister she of convent shade! 
So say these locks in lengthen'd braid, 
So say the blushes and the sighs, 
The tremors that unbidden rise, 
When, mingled with the Brace's fame, 
The brave Lord Ronald's praises came. 

in. 
Believe, his father's castle won, 
And his bold enterprise begun, 
That Brace's earliest cares restore 
The speechless page to Arran's shore: 
Nor think that long the quaint disguise 
Conceal'd her from her sister's eyes ; 
And sister-like in love they dwell 
In that lone convent's silent cell. 
There Brace's slow assent allows 
Fair Isabel the veil and vows ; 
And there, her sex's dress regain'd, 
The lovely Maid of Lorn remain'd, 
Unnamed, unknown, while Scotland far 
Resounded with the din of war ; 
And many a month, and many a day, 
In calm seclusion wore away. 

IV. 

These days, these months, to years had 

worn, 
When tidings of high weight were borne 

To that lone island's shore ; 
Of all the Scottish conquests made 
By the First Edward's ruthless blade, 

His son retain'd no more, 
Northward of Tweed, but Stirling's towers, 
Beleaguer'd by King Robert's powers; 

And they took term of truce, 41 
If England's King should not relieve 
The siege ere John the Baptist's eve, 

To yield them to the Brace. 
England was roused — on every side 
Courier and post and herald hied, 

To summon prince and peer, 
At Berwick-bounds to meet their Liege, 
Prepared to raise fair Stirling's siege, 

With buckler, brand, and spear. 
The term was nigh — they muster'd fast, 
By beacon and by bugle-blast 

Forth marshall'd for the field ; 
There rode each knight of noble name, 
There England's hardy archers came, 
The land they trode seem'd all on flame, 

With banner, blade, and shield ! 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



295 



And not famed England's powers alone, 
Renown'd in arms, the summons own; 

For Neustria's knights obey'd, 
Gascogne hath lent her horsemen good, 
And Cambria, but of late subdued, 
Sent forth her mountain multitude,-* 2 
And Connoght pour'd from waste and 

wood 
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 

Dark Eth O'Connor sway'd. 4 3 

v. 
Right to devoted" Caledon 
The storm of war rolls slowly on, 

With menace d«ep and dread ; 
So the dark clouds, with gathering power, 
Suspend awhile the threaten'd shower, 
Till every peak and summit lower 

Round the pale pilgrim's head. 
Not with such pilgrim's startled eye 
King Robert mark d the tempest nigh ! 

Resolved the brunt to bide, 
His royal summons warn'd the land, 
That all who own'd their King's com- 
mand 
Should instant take the spear and brand, 

To combat at his side. 
O who may tell the sons of fame, 
That at King Robert's bidding came, 

To battle for the right ! 
From Cheviot to the shores of Ross, 
From Solway-Sands to Marshal's-Moss, 

All boun'd them for the fight. 
Such news the royal courier tells, 
Who came to rouse dark Arran's dells ; 
But farther tidings must the ear 
Of Isabel in secret hear. 
These in her cloister walk, next morn, 
Thus shared she with the Maid of Lorn. 



"My Edith, can I tell how dear 
Our intercourse of hearts sincere 

Hath been to Isabel? — 
Judge then the sorrow of my heart, 
When I must say the words, We part ! 

The cheerless convent-cell 
Was not, sweet maiden, made for thee ; 
Go thou where thy vocation free 

On happier fortunes fell. 
Nor, Edith, judge thyself betray'd, 
Though Robert knows that Lorn's high 

Maid 
And his poor silent page were one. 
Versed in the fickle heart of man, 
Earnest and anxious hath he look'd 
How Ronald's heart the message brook'd 



That gave him, with her last farewell, 
The charge of Sister Isabel, 
To think upon thy better right, 
And keep the faith his promise plight. 
Forgive him for thy sister's sake,' 
At first if vain repinings wake — 

Long since that mood is gone : 
Now dwells he on thy juster claims, 
And oft his breach of faith he blames — 

Forgive him for thine own! " — 

VII. 

"No ! never to Lord Ronald's bower 

Will I again as paramour" 

" Nay, hush thee, too impatient maid, 

Until my final tale be said ! — 

The good King Robert would engage 

Edith once more his elfin page, 

By her own heart, and her own eye, 

Her lover's penitence to try — 

Safe in his royal charge, and free, 

Should such thy final purpose be, 

Again unknown to seek the cell, 

And live and die with Isabel." 

Thus spoke the maid — King Robert's eye 

Might have some glance of policy ; . 

Dunstaffnage had the monarch ta'en, 

And Lorn had own'd King Robert's reign, 

Her brother had to England fled, 

And there in banishment was dead ; 

Ample, through exile, death, and flight, 

O'er tower and land was Edith's right ; 

This ample right o'er tower and land 

Were safe in Ronald's faithful hand. 

VIII. 

Embarrass'd eye and blushing cheek 
Pleasure, and shame, and fear bespeak, 
Yet much the reasoning Edith made ! 
" Her sister's faith she must upbraid, 
Who gave such secret, dark and dear, 
In counsel to another's ear. 
Why should she leave the peaceful cell? — 
How should she part with Isabel? — 
How wear that strange attire agen?— ~ 
How risk herself 'midst martial men? — 
And how be guarded on the way? — 
At least she might entreat delay." 
Kind Isabel, with secret smile, 
Saw and forgave the maiden's wile, 
Reluctant to be thought to move 
At the first call of truant love. 



Oh, blame her not! — when zephyrs wake, 
The aspen's trembling leaves must shake ; 



296 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



When beams the sun through April's 

shower, 
It needs must bloom, the violet flower; 
And Love, howe'er the maiden strive, 
Must with reviving hope revive ! 
A thousand soft excuses came, — 
To plead his cause 'gainst virgin shame. 
Pledged by their sires in earliest youtn, 
He had her plighted faith and truth — 
Then, 'twas her Liege's strict command, 
And she, beneath his royal hand, 
A ward in person and in land : — 
And, last, she was resolved to stay 
Only brief space— one little day — 
Close hidden in her safe disguise 
From all, but most from Ronald's eyes — 
But once to see him more! — nor blame 
Her wish — to hear him name her name ! — 
Then, to bear back to solitude 
The thought he had his falsehood rued! 
But Isabel, who long had seen 
Her pallid cheek and pensive mien, 
And well herself the cause might know, 
Though innocent, of Edith's woe, 
Joy'd, generous, that revolving time 
Gave means to expiate the crime. 
High glow'd her bosom as she said, 
" Well shall her sufferings be repaid!" 
Now came the parting hour— a band 
From Arran's mountains left the land; 
Their chief, Fitz-Louis, had the care 
The speechless Amadine to bear 
To Bruce, with honour, as behoved 
To page the monarch dearly loved. 



The King had deem'd the maiden bright 
Should reach him long before the fight, 
But storms and fate her course delay : 
It was on eve of bai tie-day : 
When o'er the Gillie's-hill she rode, 
The landscape like a furnace glow'd, 
And far as e'er the eye was borne, 
The lances waved like autumn-corn. 
In battles four beneath their eye, 
The forces of King Robert lie. 
And one below the hill was laid, 
Reserved for rescue and for aid ; 
And three, advanced, form'd vaward-line, 
'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's 

shrine. 
Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh 
As well might mutual aid supply. 
Beyond, the Southern host appears, 
A boundless wilderness of spears, 
Whose verge or rear the anxious eye 
Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy. 



Thick flashing in the evening beam, 
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners gleam; 
And where the heaven joint! with the hill, 
Was distant armour flashing still, 
So wide, so far, the boundless host 
Seem'd in the blue horizon lost. 

XI. 

Down from the hill the maiden pass'd, 
At the wild show of war aghast ; 
And traversed first the rearward host, 
Reserved for aid where needed most. 
The men of Carrick and of Ayr, 
Lennox and Lanark, too, were there, 

And all the western land ; 
With these the valiant of the Isles 
Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files, 

In many a plaided band. 
There, in the centre, proudly raised, 
The Bruce's royal standard blazed, 
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore 
A galley dr.Ven by sail and oar. 
A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made 
Warriors in mail and plate array'd, 
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid 

By these Hebrideans worn ; 
But O ! unseen for three long years, 
Dear was the garb of mountaineers 

To the fair Maid of Lorn ! 
For one she look'd — but he was far 
Busied amid the ranks of war — 
Yet with affection's troubled eye 
She mark'd his banner boldly fly, 
Gave on the countless foe a glance, 
And thought on battle's desperate chance. 

XII. 

To centre of the vaward-line 
Fitz-Louis guided Amadine. 
Arm'd all on foot, that host appears 
A serried mass of glimmering spears. 
There stood the Marchers' warlike band, 
The warriors there of Lodon's land ; 
Ettrick and Liddell bent the yew, 
A band of archers fierce, though few ; 
The men of Nith and Annan's vale, 
And the bold Spears of Teviotdale ; — 
The dauntless Douglas these obey, 
And the young Stuart's gentle sway. 
North-eastward by Saint Ninian's shrine, 
Beneath fierce Randolph's charge, combine 
The warriors whom the hardy North 
From Tay to Sutherland sent forth. 
The rest of Scotland's war-array 
With Edward Bruce to westward lay, 
Where Bannock, with his broken bank 
And deep ravine, protects their flank. 
Behind them, screen'd by sheltering v^od, 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



297 



The gallant Keith, Lord Marshal, stood : 
His men-at-arms bear mace and lance, 
And plumes that wave, and helms that 

glance. 
Thus fair divided by the King, 
Centre, and right, and left-ward wing, 
Composed his front ; nor distant far 
Was strong reserve to aid the war. 
And 'twas to front of this array, 
Her guide and Edith made their way. 

xtn. 
Here must they pause ; for, in advance 
As far as one might pitch a lance, 
The monarch rode along the van,** 
The foe's approaching force to scan, 
His line to marshal and to range, 
And ranks to square, and fronts to change. 
Alone he rode -from head to heel 
Sheathed in his ready arms of steel; 
Nor mounted yet on war-horse wight, 
But, till mure near the shock of fight, 
Reining a palfrey low and light. 
A> diadem of gold was set 
Above his bright steel basinet, 
And clasp'd within its glittering twine 
Was seen the glove of Argentine ; 
Truncheon or leading staff he lacks, 
Bearing, instead, a battle-axe. 
He ranged his soldiers for the fight, 
Accoutred thus, in open sight 
Of either host. — Three bowshots far, 
Paused the deep front of England's war, 
And rested on their arms awhile, 
To close and rank their warlike file, 
And hold high council, if that night 
Should view the strife, or dawning light. 

XIV. 

O gay, yet fearful to behold, 

Flashing with steel and rough with gold, 

And bristled o'er with bills and spears, 
With plumes and pennons waving fair, 
Was that bright battle-front! for there 

Rode England's King and peers : 
And who, that saw that monarch ride, 
His kingdom battled by his side, 
CouM then his direful doom foretell !— 
Fair was his seat in knightly selle, 
And in his sprightly eye was set 
Some spark of the Plantagenet. 
Though light and wandering was his glance, 
It flash'd at sight of shield and lance. 
"Know'st thou," he said, " De Argentine, 
Yon knight who marshals thus their 

line?" — 
"The tokens on his helmet tell 
The Bruce, my Liege : I know him well."— 



"And shall the audacious traitor brave 
The presence where our banners wave?" — 
"So please my Liege," said Argentine, 
"Were he but horsed on steed like mine, 
To give him fair and knightly chance, 
I would adventure forth my lance." — 
In battle-da*y," the King replied, 
' ' Nice tourney rules are set aside. 
— Still must the rebel dare our wrath ? 
Set on him— sweep him from our path !" — 
And, at King Edward's signal, soon 
Dash'd from the ranks Sir Henry Boune. 

XV. 

Of Hereford's high blood he came, 

A race renown'd for knightly fame. 

He burn'd before his Monarch's eye 

To do some deed of chivalry. 

He spurr'd his steed, he couch'd his lance, 

And darted on the Bruce at once. 

— As motionless as rocks, that bide 

The wrath of the advancing tide, 

The Bruce stood fast.— Each breast beat 

high, 
And dazzled was each gazing eye — 
The heart had hardly time to think, 
The eyelid scarce had time to wink, 
While on the King, like flash of flame, 
Spurr'd to full speed the war-horse came ! 
The partridge may the falcon mock, 
If that slight palfrey stand the shock — 
But, swerving from the knight's career, 
Just as they met, Bruce shunn'd the spear, 
Onward the baffled warrior bore 
His course — but soon his course was o'er ! — 
High in his stirrups stood the King, 
And gave his battle-axe the swing. 
Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd, 
Fell that stern dint— the first— the last! — 
Such strength upon the blow was put, 
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut ; 
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp, 
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp. 
Springs from the blow the startled horse, 
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse ; 
— First of that fatal field, how soon, 
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune ! 

XVI. 

One pitying glance the Monarch sped, 
Where on the field his foe lay dead ; 
Then gently turn'd his palfrey's head, 
And, pacing back his sober way, 
Slowly he gain'd his own array. 
There round their King the leaders crowd, 
And blame his recklessness aloud, 
That risk'd 'gainst each adventurous spear, 
A life so valued and so dear. 



2 9 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



His broken weapon's shaft survey 'd 
The King, and careless answer made, — 
" My loss may pay my folly's tax; 
I've broke my trusty battle-axe." 
Twas then Fitz-Lo'uis, bending low, 
Did Isabel's commission show ; 
Edith, disguised at distance stands, 
And hides her blushes with her hands. 
The Monarch's brow has changed its hue, 
Away the gory axe he threw, 
While to the seeming page he drew, 

Clearing war's terrors from his eye 
Her hand with gentle ease he took, 
With such a kind protecting look, 

As to a weak and timid boy 
Might speak, that elder brother's care 
And elder brother's love were there. 



"Fear not," he said, "young Amadine!" 
Then whisper' d, "Still that namebethine. 
Fate plays her wonted fantasy, 
Kind Amadine, with thee and me, 
And sends thee here in doubtful hour. 
But soon we are beyond her power ; 
For on this chosen battle-plain, 
Victor or vanquish'd, I remain. 
Do thou to yonder hill repair ; 
The followers of our host are there, 
And all who may not weapons bear. — 
Fitz-Louis, have him in thy care. — 
Joyful we meet, if all go well ; 
If not, in Arran's holy cell 
Thou must take part with Isabel ; 
For brave Lord Ronald, too, hath sworn, 
Not to regain the Maid of Lorn, 
(The bliss on earth he covets most,) 
Would he forsake his battle-post, 
Or shun the fortune that may fall 
To 3ruce, to Scotland, and to all. — 
But, hark ! some news these trumpets tell; 
Forgive my haste — farewell ! — fare- 
well!"— 
And in a lower voice he said, 
"Be of good cheer — farewell, sweet 
maid !" — 

XVIII. 

" What train of dust, with trumpet-sound 
And glimmering spear, is wheeling round 
Our leftward flank? —the Monarch cried, 
To Moray's Eari who rode beside. 
" Lo ! round thy station pass the foes ! 
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose; " 
The Earl his visor closed, and said, 
' ' My wreath shall bloom, or life shall 
fade. — 



Follow, my household ! " — And they go 
Like lightning on the advancing foe. 
" My Liege," said noble Douglas then, 
' ' Earl Randolph has but one to ten : 
Let me go forth his band to aid ! " — 
— " Stir not. The error he hath made, 
Let him amend it as he may ; 
I will not weaken mine array." 
Then loudly rose the conflict-cry, 
And Douglas's brave heart swell' d high, — 
"My Liege," he said, " with patient ear 
I must not Moray's death-knell hear! " — 
' ' Then go — but speed thee back again. " — 
Forth sprung the Douglas with his train : 
But, when they won a rising hill, 
He bade his followers hold them still. — 
" See, see ! the routed Southern fly ! 
The Earl hath won the victory. 
Lo ! where yon steeds run masterless, 
His banner towers above the press. 
Rein up ; our presence would impair 
The fame we come too late to share." 
Back to the host the Douglas rode, 
And soon glad tidings are abroad, 
That, Dayncourt by stout Randolph slain, 
His followers fled with loosen'd rein. — 
That skirmish closed the busy day, 
And couch'd in battle's prompt array. 
Each army on their weapons lay. 

XIX. 

It was a night of lovely June, 

High rode in cloudless blue the moon, 

Demayet smiled beneath her ray ; 
Old Stirling's towers arose in light, 
And twined in links of silver bright, 

Her winding river lay. 
Ah, gentle planet! other sight 
Shall greet thee next returning night, 
Of broken arms and banners tore, 
And marshes dark with human gore, 
And piles of slaughter'd men and horse, 
And Forth that floats the frequent corse, 
And many a wounded wretch to plain 
Beneath thy silver light in vain ! 
But now, from England's host, the cry 

i Thou hear'st of wassail revelry, 
While from the Scottish legions pass 
The murmur' d prayer, the early mass! — 
Here, numbers had presumption given ; 
There, bandso'er-matched sought aid from 
Heaven. 

xx. 
On Gillie's hill, whose height commands 
The battle-field, fair Edith stands, 

i With serf and page unfit for war, 

i To eye the conflict from afar. 




Gently, lo ! the Warrior kneels, 
Soft that lovely hand he steals. 

The Bridal of Trierniain. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



299 



O ! with what doubtful agony 
She sees the dawning tint the sky !— 
Now on the Ochils gleams the sun, 
And glistens now Demayet dun ; 

Is it the lark that carols shrill? 
Is it the bittern's early hum? 

No! — distant, but increasing still, 

The trumpet s sound swells up the hill, 
With the deep murmur of the drum. 
Responsive from the Scottish host, 
Pipe-clang and bugle sound were toss'd.45 
His breast and brow each soldier cross'd, 

And started from the ground ; 
Arm'd and array'd for instant fight, 
Rose archer, spearman, squire, and knight, 
And in the pomp of battle bright 

The dread battalia frown'd. 



Now onward, and in open view, 

The countless ranks of England drew, 

Dark rolling like the ocean-tide, 

When the rough west hath chafed his 

pride, 
And his deep roar sends challenge wide 

To all that bars his way! 
In front the gallant archers trode, 
The men-at-arms behind them rode, 
And midmost of the phalanx broad 

The Monarch held his sway. 
Beside him many a war-horse fumes, 
Around him waves a sea of plumes, 
Where many a knight in battle known, 
And some who spurs had first braced on, 
And deem'd that fight should see them 
won, 

King Edward's hests obey. 
De Argentine attends his side, 
With stout De Valence, Pembroke's 

pride, 
Selected champions from the train, 
To wait upon his bridle-rein. 
Upon the Scottish foe he gazed — 
— At once, before his sight amazed, 

Sunk banner, spear, and shield ; 
Each weapon-point is downward sent, 
Each warrior to the ground is bent. 
" The rebels, Argentine, repent ! 

For pardon they have kneel'd." — 
"Aye! — but they bend to other powers, 
And other pardon sue than ours ! 
See where yon bare-foot Abbot stands, 
And blesses them with lifted hands ! 46 
Upon the spot where they have kneel'd, 
These men will die or win the field." — 
— " Then prove we if they die or win ! 
Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin." 



XXII. 

Earl Gilbert waved his truncheon high, 

Just as the Northern ranks arose, 
Signal for England's archery 

To halt and bend their bows. 
Then stepp'd each yeoman forth a pace, 
Glanced at the intervening space, 

And raised his left hand high ; 
To the right ear the cords they bring — 
—At once ten thousand bow-strings ring, 

Ten thousand arrows fly ! 
Nor paused on the devoted Scot 
The ceaseless fury of their shot ; 

As fiercely and as fast, 
Forth whistling came the gray-goose wing 
As the wild hailstones pelt and ring 

Adown December's blast. 
Nor mountain targe of tough bull-hide. 
Nor lowland mail, that storm may bide ; 
Woe, woe to Scotland's banner'd pride, 

If the fell shower may last ! 
Upon the right, behind the wood, 
Each by his steed dismounted, stood 

The Scottish chivalry ; — 
With foot in stirrup, hand on mane, 
Fierce Edward Bruce can scarce restrain 
His own keen heart, his eager train, 
Until the archers gain'd the plain ; 

Then, " Mount, ye gallants free ! " 
He cried ; and, vaulting from the ground, 
His saddle every horseman found. 
On high their glittering crests they toss, 
As springs the wild-fire from the moss ; 
The shield hangs down on every breast, 
Each ready lance is in the rest, 

And loud shouts Edward Bruce, — 
" Forth, Marshal! on the peasant foe! 
We'll tame the terrors of their bow, 

And cut the bow-string loose ! " w 

XXIII. 
Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks, 
They rush'd among the archer ranks. 
No spears were there the shock to let, 
No stakes to turn the charge were set, 
And how shall yeoman's armour slight, 
Stand the long lance and mace of might? 
Or what may their short swords avail, 
'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail ? 
Amid their ranks the chargers sprung, 
High o'er their heads the weapons swung, 
And shriek and groan and vengeful shout 
Give note of triumph and of rout ! 
Awhile, with stubborn hardihood, 
Their English hearts the strife made good. 
Borne down at length on every side, 
Compell'd to flight, they scatter wide. — 



3°o 



scorrs poetical works. 



I et stags of Sherwood leap for elee, 
And bound the deer of Dallom-Leel 
The broken bows of Bannock's shore 
Shall in the greenwood ring no more! 
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole now, 
The maids may twine the summer bough, 
May northward look with longing glance, 
For those that wont to lead the dance, 
For the blithe archers look in vain ! 
Broken, dispersed, in flight o'erta'en, 
1 Merced through, trode down, by thousands 

slain, 
They cumber Bannock's bloody plain. 

XXIV. 

The King with scorn beheld their flight. 
"Are these," he said, "our yeomen wight? 
Each braggart churl could boast before, 
Twelve Scottish lives his baldric bore ! 4 s 
Fitter to plunder chase or park, 
Than make a manly foe their mark. — 
Forward, each gentleman and knight! 
Let gentle blood show generous might, 
And chivalry redeem the fight ! " 
To rightvvard of the wild affray, 
The field show'd fair and level way; 

But, in mid-space, the Bruce's care 
Had bored the ground with many a pit, 
With turf and brushwood hidden yet, 

That form'd a ghastly snare. 
Rushing, ten thousand horsemen came. 
With spears in rest, and hearts on flame, 

That panted for the shock ! 
With blazing crests and banners spread, 
And trumpet-clang and clamour dread, 
The wide plain thunder'd to their tread, 

As far as Stirling rock. 
Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow, 
Horsemen and horse, the foremost go,*? 

Wild floundering on the field ! 
The first are in destruction's gorge, 
Their followers wildly o'er them urge : — 

The knightly helm and shield, 
The mail, the acton, and the spear, 
Strong hand, high heart, are useless here ! 
Loud from the mass confused the cry 
Of dying warriors swells on high, 
And steeds that shriek in agony ! 5° 
They came like mountain-torrent red, 
That thunders o'er its rocky bed ; 
They broke like that same torrent's wave 
When swallow'd by a darksome cave. 
Billows on billows burst and boil, 
Maintaining still the stern turmoil, 
And to their wild and tortured groan 
Each adds new terrors of his own ! 



XXV. 

Too strong in courage and in might 
Was England yet, to yield the fight. 

Her noblest all are here ; 
Names that to fear were never known, 
Bold Norfolk's Earl De Brotherton, 

And Oxford's famed De Vere. 
There Gloster plied the bloody sword, 
And Berkley, Grey, and Hereford, 

Bottetourt and Sanzavere, 
Ross, Montague, and Mauley, came, 
And Courtenay's pride, and Percy's fame — 
Names known too well in Scotland's war, 
At Falkirk, Methven, and Dunbar, 
Blazed broader yet in after years, 
At Cressy red and fell Poitiers. 
Pembroke with these, and Argentine, 
Brought up the rearward battle-line. 
With caution o'er the ground they tread. 
Slippery with blood and piled with dead, 
Till hand to hand in battle set, 
The bills with spears and axes met, 
And, closing dark on every side, 
Raged the full contest far and wide. 
Then was the strength of Douglas tried. 
Then proved was Randolph's generous 

pride, 
And well did Stewart's actions grace 
The sire of Scotland's royal race ! 

Firmly they kept their ground ; 
As firmly England onward press'd, 
And down went many a noble crest, 
And rent was many a valiant breast, 

And Slaughter revell'd round. 

xxvr. 
Unflinching foot 'gairi~t foot was set, 
Unceasing blow by blow was met ; 

The groans of those who fell 
Were drown'd amid the shriller clang 
That from the blades and harness rang, 

And in the battle-yell. 
Yet fast they fell, unheard, forgot, 
Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot ; 
And O ! amid that waste of life, 
What various motives fired the strife ! 
The aspiring Noble bled for fame, 
The Patriot for his country's claim ; 
This Knight his youthful strength to prove, 
And that to win his lady's love ; 
Some fought from ruffian thirst of blood, 
From habit some, or hardihood. 
But ruffian stern, and soldier good, 

The noble and the slave, 
From various cause the same wild road, 
On the same bloody morning, trode, 

To that dark inn, the grave ! 



" 



XXVII. 

The tug of strife to flag begins, 
Though neither loses yet nor wins. 
High rides the sun, thick rolls the dust, 
And feebler speeds the blow and thrust. 
Douglas leans on his war-sword now, 
And Randolph wipes his bloody brow ; 
Nor less had toil'd each Southern knight, 
From morn till mid-day in the fight. 
Strong Egremont for air must gasp, 
Beauchamp undoes his visor-clasp, 
And Montague must quit his spear, 
And sinks thy falchion, bold De Vere! 
The blows of Berkley fall less fast, 
And gallant Pembroke's bugle-blast 

Hath lost its lively tone ; 
Sinks, Argentine, thy battle-word, 
And Percy's shout was fainter heard, 

" My merry-men, fight on ! " 
xxvni. 
Bruce, with the pilot's wary eye, 
The slackening of the storm could spy. 

" One effort more, and Scotland's free ! 

Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 
Is firm as Ailsa Rock ; 5 1 

Rush on with Highland sword and 
targe, 

I with my Carrick spearmen charge ; 
Now, forward to the shock ! " 

At once the spears were forward thrown, 

Against the sun the broadswords shone ; 

The pibroch lent its maddening tone, 

And loud King Robert's voice was 
known — 

" Carrick, press on — they fail, they fail ! 

Press on, brave sons of Innisgail, 
The foe is fainting fast ! 

Each strike for parent, child, and wife, 

For Scotland, liberty, and life, — 
The battle cannot last ! " 

XXIX. 

The fresh and desperate onset bore 
The foes three furlongs back and more, 
Leaving their noblest in their gore. 

Alone, De Argentine 
Yet bears on high his red-cross shield, 
Gathers the relics of the field, 
Renews the ranks where they have reel'd, 

And still makes good the line. 
Brief strife, but fierce, — his efforts raise 
A bright but momentary blaze. 
Fair Edith heard the Southron shout, 
Beheld them turning from the rout, 
Heard the wild call their trumpets sent, 
In notes 'twixt triumph and lament. 



That rallying force, combined anew, 
Appear'd in her distracted view, 

To hem the Islesmen round ; 
" O God ! the combat they renew, 

And is no rescue found ! 
And ye that look thus tamely on, 
And see your native land o'erthrown, 
O ! are your hearts of flesh or stone ? " 

XXX. 

The multitude that watch'd afar, 
Rejected from the ranks of war, 
Had not unmoved beheld the fight, 
When strove the Bruce for Scotland's 

right ; 
Each heart had caught the patriot spark, 
Old man and stripling, priest and clerk, 
Bondsman and serf; even female hand 
Stretch'd to the hatchet or the brand ; 
But, when mute Amadine they heard 
Give to their zeal his signal-word, 

A frenzy fired the throng ; 
" Portents and miracles impeach 
Our sloth — the dumb our duties teach — 
And he that gives the mute his speech, 
Can bid the weak be strong. 
To us, as to our lords, are given 
A native earth, a promised heaven ; 
To us, as to our lords, belongs 
The vengeance for our nation's wrongs; 
The choice 'twixt death or freedom, warms 
Our breasts as theirs — To arms, to arms ! " 
To arms they flew, — axe, club, or spear, — 
And mimic ensigns high they rear,5 2 
And, like a banner'd host afar, 
Bear down on England's wearied war. 

XXXI. 

Already scatter'd o'er the plain, 
Reproof, command, and counsel vain, 
The rearward squadrons fled amain, 

Or made but doubtful stay ; 
But when they mark'd the seeming 

show 
Of fresh and fierce and marshall'd foe, 

The boldest broke array. 
O give their hapless prince his due ! 
In vain the royal Edward threw 

His person 'mid the spears, 
Cried, " Fight ! " to terror and despair, 
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair, 

And cursed their caitiff fears . 
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein, 
And forced him from the fatal plain. 
With them rode Argentine, until 
They gain'd the summit of the hill, 

But quitted there the train : — 



3o« 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" In yonder field a gage I left, — 
I must not live of fame bereft ; 

I needs must turn again. 
Speed hence, my Liege, for on your trace 
The fiery Douglas takes the chase, 

I know his banner well. 
God send my Sovereign joy and bliss, 
And many a happier field than this ! — 

Once more, my Liege, farewell." 

XXXII. 

Again he faced the battle-field, — 
Wildly they fly, are slain, or yield. 
"Now then," he said, and couch'd his 

spear, 
• ' My course is run, the goal is near ; 
One effort more, one brave career, 

Must close this race of mine." 
Then in his stirrups rising high, 
He shouted loud his battle-cry, 

■ ' Saint James for Argentine ! " 
And, of the bold pursuers, four 
The gallant knight from saddle bore ; 
But not unharmd— a lance's point 
Has found his breastplate's loosen'd joint, 

An axe has razed his crest ; 
Yet still on Colonsay's fierce lord, 
Who press'd the chase with gory sword, 

He rode with spear in rest, 
And through his bloody tartans bored, 

And through his gallant breast. 
Nail'd to the earth, the mountaineer 
Yet writhed him up against the spear, 

And swung his broadsword round ! 
— Stirrup, steel-boot, and cuish gave way, 
Beneath that blow's tremendous sway, 

The blood gush'd from the wound ; 
And the grim Lord of Colonsay 

Hath turn'd him on the ground, 
And laugh'd in death-pang, that his blade 
The mortal thrust so well repaid. 

XXXIII. 

Now toil'd the Bruce, the battle done, 
To use his conquest boldly won ; 
And gave command for horse and spear 
To press the Southron's scatter'd rear, 
Nor let his broken force combine, 
— When the war-cry of Argentine 

Fell faintly on his ear ; 
" Save, save his life," he cried, " O save 
The kind, the noble, and the brave!" 
The squadrons round free passage gave, 

The wounded knight drew near ; 
He raised his red-cross shield no more, 
Helm, cuish, and breastplate, stream'd 
with gore, 



Yet, as he saw the King advance, 

He strove even then to couch his lance— 

The effort was in vain ! 
The spur-stroke fail'd to rouse the horse; 
Wounded and weary, in mid course 

He stumbled on the plain. 
Then foremost was the generous Bruce 
To raise his head, his helm to loose ; — 

" Lord Earl, the day is thine ! 
My Sovereign's charge, and adverse fate, 
Have made our meeting all too late : 

Yet this may Argentine, 
As boon from ancient comrade, crave, — 
A Christian's mass, a soldier's grave." 

XXXIV. 

Bruce press'd his dying hand— its grasp 
Kindly replied ; but, in his clasp, 

It stiffen" d and grew cold — 
■ ' And, O farewell ! " the victor cried, 
" Of chivalry the flower and pride, 

The arm in battle bold, 
The courteous mien, the noble race, 
The stainless faith, the manly face ! — 
Bid Ninian's convent light their shrine, 
For late-wake of De Argentine. 
O'er better knight on death-bier laid, 
Torch never gleam'd nor mass was said ! '' 

XXXV. 

Nor for De Argentine alone, 

Through Ninian's church these torches 

shone, 
And rose the death-prayer's awful tone. 
That yellow lustre glimmer'd pale, 
On broken plate and bloodied mail, 
Rent crest and shatter' d coronet, 
Of Baron, Earl, and Banneret; 
And the best names that England knew, 
Claim'd in the death-prayer dismal due. 

Yet mourn not, Land of Fame ! 
Though ne'er the Leopards on thy shield 
Retreated from so sad a field, 

Since Norman William came. 
Oft may thine annals justly boast 
Of batties stern by Scotland lost ; 

Grudge not her victory, 
When for her freeborn rights she strove ; 
Rights dear to all who freedom love. 

To none so dear as thee ! 

XXXVI. 

Turn we to Bruce, whose curious ear 
Must from Fitz-Louis tidings hear : 
With him a hundred voices tell 
Of prodigy and miracle, 

" For the mute page had spoke."— 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



303 



"Page!" said Fitz- Louis, "rather say, 
An angel sent from realms of day, 

To burst the English yoke. 
I saw his plume and bonnet drop, 
When hurrying from the mountain-top; 
A lovely brow, dark locks that wave, 
To his bright eyes new lustre gave ; 
A step as light upon the green, 
As if his pinions waved unseen ! " — 
"Spoke he with none?" — "With none — 

one word 
Burst when he saw the Island Lord, 
Returning from the battle-field." — 
"What answer made the Chief ?"—" He 

kneel'd, 
Durst not look up, but mutter*d low, 
Some mingled sounds that none might 

know, 
And greeted him 'twixt joy and fear, 
As being of superior sphere." 

xxxvu. 

Even upon Bannock's bloody plain, 
Heap'd then with thousands of the slain, 
'Mid victor monarch's musings high, 
Mirth laugh'd in good King Robert'seye. — 
" And bore he such angelic air, 
Such noble front, such waving hair? 
Hath Ronald kneel'd to him?" he said, 
"Then must we call the church to aid — 
Our will be to the Abbot known, 
Ere these strange news are wider blown, 
To Cambuskenneth straight ye pass, 
And deck the church for solemn mass, 
To pay for high deliverance given, 
A nation's thanks to gracious Heaven. 
Let him array, besides, such state, 
As should on princes' nuptials wait. 



Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite, 
That once broke short that spousal rite, 
Ourself will grace, with early morn, 
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn." 

CONCLUSION. 

Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous 

way ; 
Go boldly forth ; nor yet thy master 

blame, 
Who chose no patron for his humble lay, 
And graced thy numbers with no friendly 

name, 
Whose partial zeal might smooth thy 

path to fame. 
There was — and O ! how many sorrows 

crowd 
Into these two brief words ! — there was a 

claim 
By generous friendship given — had fate 

allow'd, 
It well had bid thee rank the proudest of 

the proud ! 

All angel now — yet little less than all, 
While still a pilgrim in our world below ! 
What 'vails it us that patience to recall, 
Which hid its own to soothe all other 

woe ; 
What 'vails to tell, how Virtue's purest 

glow 
Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair ; 
And, least of all, what 'vails the world 

should know, 
That one poor garland, twined to deck 

thy hair, 
Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and 

wither there ! 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



A POEM. 



TO HER GRACE THE 



DUCHESS OF WELLINGTON, 

PRINCESS OF WATERLOO, &c. &c. &c. 

THE FOLLOWING VERSES ARE MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY' 

THE AUTHOR. 



It may be some apology for the imperfections of this poem, that it was composed hastily, 
and during a short tour upon the Continent, when the Author's labours were liable to fre- 
quent interruption ; but its best apology is, that it was written for the purpose of assisting the 
Waterloo Subscription. 

Abbotsford, 1815. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



Though Valois braved young Edward's gentle hand, 

And Albert rush'd on Henry's way-worn band, 

With Europe's chosen sons, in arms renown'd, 

Yet not on Vere's bold archers long they look'd, 

Nor Audley's squires, nor Mowbray's yeomen brook'd, — 

They saw their standard fall, and left their monarch bound. 



-Akenside. 



Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, 
Though, lingering on the morning wind, 

We yet may hear the hour 
Peal'd over orchard and canal, 
With voice prolong'd and measured fall, 

From proud St. Michael's tower ; 
Thy wood, dark Soignies, holds us now,* 
Where the tall beeches' glossy bough, 

* The wood of Soignies is a remnant of the 
forest of Ardennes, the scene of the charming 
and romantic incidents of Shakespeare's "As 
you Like It." 



For many a league around, 
With birch and darksome oak between, 
Spreads deep and far a pathless screen, 

Of tangled forest ground. 
Stems planted close by stems defy 
The adventurous foot — the curious eye 

For access seeks in vain ; 
And the brown tapestry of leaves, 
Strew'd on the blighted ground, receives 

Nor sun, nor air, nor rain. 
No opening glade dawns on our way, 
No streamlet, glancing to the ray, 

Our woodland path has cross'd ; 
And the straight causeway which we tread. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO 



3<>5 



Prolongs a line of dull arcade, 
Unvarying through the unvaried shade 
Until in distance lost. 



A brighter, livelier scene succeeds ; 
In groups the scattering wood recedes, 
Hedge-rows, and huts, and sunny meads, 

And corn-fields, glance between ; 
The peasant at his labour blithe, 
Plies the hook'd staff and shorten'd 
scythe : x — 

But when these ears were green, 
Placed close within destruction's scope, 
Full little was that rustic's hope 

Their ripening to have seen ! 
And, lo, a hamlet and its fane : — 
Let not the gazer with disdain 

Their architecture view ; 
For yonder rude ungraceful shrine, 
And disproportion' d spire, are thine, 

Immortal Waterloo! 

in. 
Fear not the heat, though full and high 
The sun has scorch'd the autumn sky, 
And scarce a forest straggler now 
To shade us spreads a greenwood bough : 
These fields have seen a hotter day 
Than e'er was fired by sunny ray. 
Yet one mile on — yon shatter'd hedge 
Crests the soft hill whose long smooth ridge 

Looks on the field below, 
And sinks so gently on the dale, 
That not the folds of Beauty's veil 

In easier curves can flow. 
Brief space from thence, the ground again 
Ascending slowly from the plain, 

Forms an opposing screen, 
Which, with its crest of upland ground, 
Shuts the horizon all around. 

The soften'd vale between 
Slopes smooth and fair for courser's tread ; 
Not the most timid maid need dread 
To give her snow-white palfrey head 

On that wide stubble-ground ; 
Nor wood, nor tree, nqr bush, are there, 
Her course to intercept or scare, 

Nor fosse nor fence are found, 
Save where, from out her shatter'd bowers, 
Rise Hougomont's dismantled towers. 

IV. 

Now, see'st thou aught in this lone scene 
Can tell of that which late hath been?— 

A stranger might reply, 
" The bare extent of stubble-plain 
Seems lately lighten'd of its grain ; 



And yonder sable tracks remain 
Marks of the peasant's ponderous wain, 

When harvest-home was nigh. 
On these broad spots of trampled ground, 
Perchance the rustics danced such round 

As Teniers loved to draw ; 
And where the earth seems scorch'd by 

flame, 
To dress the homely feast they came, 
And toil'd the kerchief'd village dame 

Around her fire of straw." 

v. 
So deem'st thou — so each mortal deems, 
Of that which is from that which seems. — 

But other harvest here, 
Than that which peasant's scythe demands, 
Was gather'd in by sterner hands, 

With bayonet, blade, and spear. 
No vulgar crop was theirs to reap, 
No stinted harvest thin and cheap ! 
Heroes before each fatal sweep 

Fell thick as ripen' d grain ; 
And ere the darkening of the day, 
Piled high as autumn shocks, there lay 
The ghastly harvest of the fray, 

The corpses of the slain. 

VI. 

Ay, look again — that line, so black 
And trampled, marks the bivouac, 
Yon deep-graved ruts the artillery's track, 

So often lost and won ; 
And close beside, the harden'd mud 
Still shows where, fetlock-deep in blood, 
The fierce dragoon, through battle's flood, 

Dash'd the hot war-horse on. 
These spots of excavation tell 
The ravage of the bursting shell — 
And feel'st thou not the tainted steam, 
That reeks against the sultry beam, 

From yonder trenched mound? 
The pestilential fumes declare 
That Carnage has replenish' d there 

Her garner-house profound. 

VII. 

Far other harvest-home and feast, 

Than claims the boor from scythe released, 

On these scorch'd fields were known ! 
Death hover'd o'er the maddening rout, 
And, in the thrilling battle-shout, 
Sent for the bloody banquet out 

A summons of his own. 
Through rolling smoke the Demon's eye 
Could well each destined guest espy. 
Well could his ear in ecstasy 

Distinguish every tone 



3o6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



J. 



That fill'd the chorus of the fray— 
From cannon-roar and trumpet bray, 
From charging squadrons' wild hurra, 
From the wild clang that mark'd their 
way, — 

Down to the dying groan, 
And the last sob of life's decay, 

When breath was all but flown. 

VIII. 

Feast on, stern foe of mortal life, 
Feast on ! but think not that a strife, 
With such promiscuous carnage rife, 

Protracted space may last ; 
The deadly tug of war at length 
Must limits find in human strength, 

And cease when these are past. 
Vain hope ! — that morn's o'erclouded sun 
Heard the wild shout of fight begun 

Ere he attain' d his height, 
And through the war-smoke, volumed high, 
Still peals that unremitted cry, 

Though now he stoops to night. 
For ten long hours of doubt and dread, 
Fresh succours from the extended head 
Of either hill the contest fed ; 

Still down the slope they drew, 
The charge of columns paused not, 
Nor ceased the storm of shell and shot ; 

For all that war could do 
Of skill and force was proved that day, 
And turn'd not yet the doubtful fray 

On bloody Waterloo. 

IX. 

Pale Brussels! then what thoughts were 

thine, 2 
When ceaseless from the distant line 

Continued thunders came ! 
Each burgher held his breath, to hear, 
These forerunners of havoc near, 

Of rapine and of flame. 
What ghastly sights were thine to meet, 
When rolling through thy stately street, 
The wounded show'd their mangled plight 
In token of the unfinish'd fight, 
And from each anguish-laden wain 
The blood-drops laid thy dust like rain ! 
How often in the distant drum 
Heard'st thou the fell Invader come, 
While Ruin, shouting to his band, 
Shook high her torch and gory brand ! — 
Cheer thee, fair City! From yon stand, 
Impatient, still his outstretch'd hand 

Points to his prey in vain, 
While maddening in his eager mood, 
And all unwont to be withstood, 

He fires the fight again. 



** On ! On ! " was still his stern exclaim ; 3 
" Confront the battery's jaws of flame! 

Rush on the levell'd gun! 
My steel-clad cuirassiers, advance ! 
Each Hulan forward with his lance, 
My Guard — my Chosen— charge forFrance, 

France and Napoleon ! " 
Loud ansvver'd their acclaiming shout, 
Greeting the mandate which sent out 
Their bravest and their best to dare 
The fate their leader shunn'd to share.* 
JBut He, his country's sword and shield, 
Still in the battle-front reveal'd, 
Where danger fiercest swept the field, 

Came like a beam of light, 
In action prompt, in sentence brief — 
" Soldiers, stand firm," exclaim'd the Chief, 

" England shall tell the fight I " S 

XI. 

On came the whirlwind— like the last 
But fiercest sweep of tempest-blast — 
On came the whirlwind — steel-gleams 

broke 
Like lightning through the rolling smoke ; 

The war was waked anew, 
Three hundred cannon-mouths roar'd loud, 
rind from their throats, with flash and cloud, 

Their showers of iron threw. 
Beneath their fire, in full career, 
Rush'd on the ponderous cuirassier, 
The lancer couch'd his ruthless spear, 
And hurrying as to havoc near, 

The cohorts' eagles flew. 
In one dark torrent, broad and strong, 
The advancing onset roll'd along, 
Forth harbinger'd by fierce acclaim, 
That, from the shroud of smoke and flame, 
Peal'd wildly the imperial name. 



But on the British heart were lost 
The terrors of the charging host ; 
For not an eye the storm that view'd 
Changed its proud glance of fortitude, 
Nor was one forward footstep staid, 
As dropp'd the dying and the dead. 
Fast as their ranks the thunders tear, 
Fast they renew'd each serried square ; • 
And on the wounded and the slain 
Closed their diminish'd files again, 
Till from their line scarce spears' lengths 

three, 
Emerging from the smoke they see 
Helmet, and plume, and panoply, — 
Then waked their fire at once ! 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



307 



Each musketeer's revolving knell, 
As fast, as regularly fell, 
As when they practise to display 
Their discipline on festal day. 

Then down went helm and lance, 
Down were the eagle banners' sent, 
Down reeling steeds and riders went, 
Corslets were pierced, and pennons rent ; 

And, to augment the fray, 
Wheel'd full against their staggering flanks 
The English horsemen's foaming ranks 

Forced their resistless way. 
Then to the musket-knell succeeds 
The clash of swords— the neigh of steeds— 
As plies the smith his clanging trade, 6 
Against the cuirass rang the blade ; 
And while amid their close array 
The well-served cannon rent their way 
And while amid their scatter'd band 
Raged the fierce rider's bloody brand, 
Recoil'd in common rout and fear, 
Lancer and guard and cuirassier, 
Horsemen and foot — a mingled host, 
Their leaders fall'n, their standards lost. 

XIII. 

Then, Wellington ! thy piercing eye 
This crisis caught of destiny — 

The British host had stood 
That morn 'gainst charge of sword and 

lance * 
As their own ocean-rocks hold stance, 
But when thy voice had said, ' ' Advance ! " 

They were their ocean's flood. — 
O Thou, whose inauspicious aim 
Hath wrought thy host this hour of shame, 
Think'st thou thy broken bands will bide 
The terrors of yon rushing tide? 
Or will thy chosen brook to feel 
The British shock of levell'd steel, 7 

Or dost thou turn thine eye 
Where coming squadrons gleam afar, 
And fresher thunders wake the war, 

And other standards fly? — 
Think not that in yon columns, file 
Thy conquering troops from distant Dyle — 

Is Blucher yet unknown? 
Or dwells not in thy memory still, 
(Heard frequent in thine hour of ill,) 
What notes of hate and vengeance thrill 

In Prussia's trumpet tone ? — 

* " The British square stood unmoved, and 
never gave fire until the cavalry were within 
ten yards, when men rolled one waj', horses 
galloped another, and the cuirassiers were in 
every instance driven back."— Life of Bona- 
parte, vol. ix. p. 12. 



What yet remains ? — shall it be thine 
To head the relics of thy line 

In one dread effort more ? — 
The Roman lore thy leisure loved, 
And thou canst tell what fortune proved 

That Chieftain, who, of yore, 
Ambition's dizzy paths essay'd, 
And with the gladiators' aid 

For empire enterprised — 
He stood the cast his rashness play'd, 
Left not the victims he had made, 
Dug his red grave with his own blade, 
And on the field he lost was laid, 

Abhorr'd — but not despised. 

XIV. 
But if revolves thy fainter thought 
On safety — howsoever bought, — 
Then turn thy fearful rein and ride, 
Though twice ten thousand men have died 

On this eventful day, 
To gild the military fame 
Which thou, for life, in traffic tame 

Wilt barter thus away. 
Shall future ages tell this tale 
Of inconsistence faint and frail ? 
And art thou He of Lodi's bridge, 
Marengo's field, and Wagram's ridge ! 

Or is thy soul like mountain-tide, 
That, swell'd by winter storm and shower, 
Rolls down in turbulence of power, 

A torrent fierce and wide ; 
Reft of these aids, a rill obscure, 
Shrinking unnoticed, mean and poor, 

Whose channel shows display'd 
The wrecks of its impetuous course, 
But not one symptom of the force 

By which these wrecks were made ! 



Spur on thy way ! — since now thine ear 
Has brook'd thy veterans' wish to hear, 

Who, as thy flight they eyed, 
Exclaim'd, — while tears of anguish came, 
Wrung forth by pride, and rage, and 
shame, — 

" O, that he had but died ! " 
But yet, to sum this hour of ill, 
Look, ere thou leavest the fatal hill, 

Back on yon broken ranks — 
Upon whose wild confusion gleams 
The moon, as on the troubled streams 

When rivers break their banks, 
And, to the ruin'd peasant's eye, 
Objects half seen roll swiftly by, 

Down the dread current hurl'd — 
So mingle banner, wain, and gun, 



3o8 



scorrs poetical works. 



Where the tumultuous fight rolls on 
Of warriors, who, when morn begun, 
Defied a banded world. 



List — frequent to the hurrying rout, 
The stern pursuers' vengeful shout 
Tells, that upon their broken rear 
Rages the Prussian's bloody spear. 

So fell a shriek was none, 
When Beresina's icy flood 
Redden'd and thaw'd with flame and blood, 
And, pressing on thy desperate way, 
Raised oft and long their wild hurra, 

The children of the Don. 
Thine ear no yell of horror cleft 
So ominous, when all bereft 
Of aid, the valiant Polack left* — 
Ay, left by thee — found soldier's grave 
In Leipsic's corpse-encumber'd wave. 
Fate, in those various perils past, 
Reserved thee still some future cast ; 
On the dread die thou now hast thrown, 
Hangs not a single field alone, 
Nor one campaign — thy martial fame, 
Thy empire, dynasty, and name, 

Have felt the final stroke ; 
And now, o'er thy devoted head 
The last stern vial's wrath is shed, 

The last dread seal is broke. 



Since live thou wilt — refuse not now 
Before these demagogues to bow, 
Late objects of thy scorn and hate, 
Who shall thy once imperial fate 
Make wordy theme of vain debate. — 
Or shall we say, thou stoop'st less low 
In seeking refuge from the foe, 
Against whose heart, in prosperous life, 
Thine hand hath ever held the knife ? 

Such homage hath been paid 
By Roman and by Grecian voice, 
And there were honour in the choice, 

If it were freely made. 
Then safely come, — in one so low — 
So lost, — we cannot own a foe ; 
Though dear experience bid us end, 
In thee we ne'er can hail a friend. — 
Come, howsoe'er — but do not hide 
Close in thy heart that germ of pride, 
Erewhile, by gifted bard espied, 

That "yet imperial hope;" 

* For an account of the death of Ponia- 
towski at Leipsic, see Sir Walter Scott's Life 
of Bonaparte, vol. vii. p. 401. 



Think not that for a fresh rebound, 
To raise ambition from the ground, 

We yield thee means or scope. 
In safety come— but ne'er again 
Hold type of independent reign ; 

No islet calls thee lord, 
We leave thee no confederate band, 
No symbol of thy lost command, 
To be a dagger in the hand 

From which we wrench'd the sword. 

XVIII. 
Yet, even in yon sequester'd spot, 
May worthier conquest be thy lot 

Than yet thy life has known ; 
Conquest, unbought by blood or harm, 
That needs nor foreign aid nor arm, 

A triumph all thine own. 
Such waits thee when thou shalt control 
Those passions wild, that stubborn soul, 

That marr'd thy prosperous scene : 
Hear this — from no unmoved heart, 
Which sighs, comparing what THOU ART 

With what thou might'st have been ! 



Thou, too, whose deeds of fame renew'd 

Bankrupt a nation's gratitude, 

To thine own noble heart must owe 

More than the meed she can bestow. 

For not a people's just acclaim, 

Not the full hail of Europe's fame, 

Thy Prince's smiles, thy State's decree, 

The ducal rank, the garter'd knee, 

Not these such pure delight afford 

As that, when hanging up thy sword, 

Well may' st thou think, ' ' This honest steel 

Was ever drawn for public weal ; 

And, such was rightful Heaven's decree, 

Ne'er sheathed unless with victory !" 

xx. 
Look forth, once more, with soften'd heart, 
Ere from the field of fame we part ; 
Triumph and Sorrow border near, 
And joy oft melts into a tear. 
Alas ! what links of love that morn 
Has War's rude hand asunder torn ! 
For ne'er was field so sternly fought, 
And ne'er was conquest dearer bought. 
Here piled in common slaughter sleep 
Those whom affection long shall weep : 
Here rests the sire, that ne'er shall strain 
His orphans to his heart again ; 
The son, whom, on his native shore, 
The parent's voice shall bless no more ; 
The bridegroom, who has hardly press'd 
His blushing consort - his breast • 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



309 



The husband, whom through many a year 
Long love and mutual faith endear. 
Thou canst not name one tender tie, 
But here dissolved its relics lie ! 
O ! when thou see'st some mourner's veil 
Shroud her thin form and visage pale, 
Or mark*st the Matron's bursting tears 
Stream when the stricken drum she hears ; 
Or see'st how manlier grief, suppress'd, 
Is labouring in a father's breast, — 
With no inquiry vain pursue 
The cause, dui rmnK on Waterloo ! 

XXI. 

Period of honour as of woes, 
What bright careers 'twas thine to close ! 8 
Mark'd on thy roll of blood what names 
To Briton's memory, and to Fame's, 
Laid there their last immortal claims ! 
Thou saw'st in seas of gore expire 
Redoubted Picton's soul of fire — 
Saw'st in the mingled carnage lie 
All that of Ponsonby could die— 
De Lancey change Love's bridal wreath, 
For laurels from the hand of Death? — 
Saw'st gallant Miller's failing eye 10 
Still bent where Albion's banners riy, 
And Cameron, 11 in the shock of steel, 
Die like the offspring of Lochiel ; 
And generous Gordon, 12 'mid the strife, 
Fall, while he watch'd his leader's life. — 
Ah ! though her guardian angel's shield 
Fenced Britain's hero through the field, 
Fate not the less her power made known, 
Through his friends' hearts to pierce his 
own ! * 

XXII. 
Forgive, brave Dead, the imperfect lay ! 
Who may your names, your numbers, say? 
What high-strung harp, what lofty line, 
To each the dear-earn'd praise assign, 
From high-h >rn chiefs of martial fame 
To the poor soldier's lowlier name ? 
Lightly ye rose that dawning-day, 
From your cold couch of swamp and clay, 
To fill, before the sun was low, 
The bed that morning cannot know. — 
Oft may the tear the green sod steep, 
And sacred be the heroes' sleep, 

Till time shall cease to run ; 
And ne'er beside their noble grave, 
May Briton pass and fail to crave 
A blessing on the fallen brave 

Who fought with Wellington ! 

* The grief of the victor for the fate of his 
friends is touchingly described by those who 
witnessed it. 



XXIII. 

Farewell, sad Field ! whose blighted face 
Wears desolation's withering trace ; 
Long shall my memory retain 
Thy shatter'd huts and trampled grain, 
With every mark of martial wrong, 
That scathe thy towers, fair Hougomont ! x 3 
Yet though thy garden's green arcade 
The marksman's fatal post was made, 
Though on thy shatter'd beeches fell 
^e blended rage of shot and shell, 
Though from thy blacken'd portals torn, 
Their fall thy blighted fruit-trees mourn, 
Has not such havoc bought a name 
Immortal in the rolls of fame? 
Yes — Agincourt may be forgot, 
And Cressy be an unknown spot, 

And Blenheim's name be new ; 
But still in story and in song, 
For many an age remember'd long, 
Shall live the towers of Hougomont, 

And Field of Waterloo. 

CONCLUSION. 

Stern tide of human Time ! that know'st 

not rest, 
But sweeping from the cradle to the 

tomb, 
Bear'st ever downward on thy dusky 

breast, 
Successive generations to their doom ; 
While thy capacious stream has equal 

room 
For the gay bark where Pleasure's 

streamers sport, 
And for the prison-ship of guilt and 

gloom, 
The fisher-skiff, and barge that bears a 

court, 
Still wafting onward all to one dark silent 

port ; — 

Stern tide of Time ! through what 

mysterious change 
Of hope and fear have our frail barks 

been driven ! 
For ne'er, before, vicissitude so strange 
Was to one race of Adam's offspring 

given. 
And sure such varied change of sea and 

heaven, 
Such unexpected bursts of joy and woe, 
Such fearful strife as that where we have 

striven, 
Succeeding ages ne'er again shall know, 
Until the awful term when Thou shalt 

cease to flow 1 



3"> 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Well hast thou stood, my Country! — 

the brave fight 
Hast well maintain'd through good 

report and ill ; 
In thy just cause and in thy native 

might, 
And in Heaven's grace and justice con- 
stant still ; 
Whether the banded prowess, strength, 

and skill 
Of half the world against thee stood 

array 'd, 
Or when, with better views and freer will, 
Beside thee Europe's noblest drew the 

blade, 
Each emulous in arms the Ocean Queen 

to aid. 

Well art thou now repaid — though 

slowly rose, 
And struggled long with mists thy blaze 

of fame, 
While like the dawn that in the orient 

glows 
On the broad wave its earlier lustre 

came ; [flame, 

Then eastern Egypt saw the growing 
And Maida's myrtles gleam'd beneath 

its ray, 
Where first the soldier, stung with 

generous shame, 
Rivall'd the heroes of the wat'ry way, 
And wash'd in foeman's gore unjust 

reproach away. 



Now, Island Empress, wave thy crest 

on high, 
And bid the banner of thy Patron 

flow, 
Gallant Saint George, the flower of 

Chivalry, 
For thou hast faced, like him, a dragon 

foe, 
And rescued innocence from overthrow, 
And trampled down, like him, tyrannic 

might, 
And to the gazing world mayst proudly 

show 
The chosen emblem of thy sainted 

Knight, 
Who quell'd devouring pride, and vindi- 
cated right. 

Yet 'mid the confidence of just re- 
nown, 
Renown dear-bought, but dearest thus 

acquired, 
Write, Britain, write the moral lesson 

down : 
'Tis not alone the heart with valour 

fired, 
The discipline so dreaded and admired, 
In many a field of bloody conquest 

known ; 
— Such may by fame be lured, by gold 

be hired — 
'Tis constancy in the good cause alone, 
Best justifies the meed thy valiant sons 

have won. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS, 



A POEM IN SIX CANTOS. 



INTRODUCTION. 

There is a mood of mind, we all have 

known 
On drowsy eve, or dark and low'ring day, 
When the tired spirits lose their sprightly 

tone, 
And nought can chase the lingering 

hours away. 
Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling 

ray, 
And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in 

vain, 



Obscured the painting seems, mistuned 
the lay, 

Nor dare we of our listless load complain, 
For who for sympathy may seek that can- 
not tell of pain? 

The jolly sportsman knows such dreari- 
hood, 

When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain, 

Clouding that morn which threats the 
heath-cock's brood ; 

Of such, insummer'sdrought, theanglers 
plain, 



Harold the dauntless. 



31* 



Who hope the soft mild southern shower 

in vain ; 
But, more than all, the discontented fair, 
Whom father stern, and sterner aunt, 

restrain 
From county-ball, or race occurring rare, 
While all her friends around their vestments 

gay prepare. 

Ennui ! — or, as our mothers call'd thee, 

Spleen ! 
To thee we owe full many a rare device ; — 
Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I 

ween, 
The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling 

dice; 
The turning-lathe for framing gimcrack 

nice; 
The amateur's blotch'd pallet thou mayst 

claim, 
Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs 

and mice, 
(Murdersdisguised by philosophic name,) 
And much of trifling grave, and much of 

buxom game. 

Then of the books, to catch thy drowsy 

glance, 
Compiled, what bard the catalogue may 

quote! 
Plays, poems, novels, never read but 

once ; — 
But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth 

wrote, 
That bears thy name, and is thine anti- 
dote; 
And not of such the strain my Thomson 

sung, 
Delicious dreams inspiring by his note, 
What time to Indolence his harp he 

strung ; — 
Oh ! might my lay be rank'd that happier 

list among ! 

Each hath his refuge whom thy cares 

assail. 
For me, I love my study-fire to trim, 
And con right vacantly some idle tale, 
Displaying on the couch each listless 

limb, 
Till on the drowsy page the lights grow 

dim, 
And doubtful slumber half supplies the 

theme ; 
While antique shapes of knight and giant 

grim. 



Damsel and dwarf, in long procession 
gleam, 
And the Romancers tale becomes the 
Reader's dream. 

'Tis thus my malady I well may bear, 
Albeit outstretch'd, like Pope's own 

Parider, 
Upon the rack of a too-easy chair; 
And find, to cheat the time, a powerful 

spell 
In old romaunts of errantry that tell, 
Or later legends of the Fairy-folk, 
Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell, 
Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-wing'd 

Roc, 
Though taste may blush and frown, and 

sober reason mock. 

Oft at such season, too, will rhymes un- 
sought 
Arrange themselves in some romantic 

lay; — 
The which, as things unfitting graver 

thought, 
Are burnt or blotted on some wiser 

day. — 
These few survive — and proudly let me 

say, 
Court not the critic's smile, nor dread 

his frown ; 
They well may serve to wile an hour 

away, 
Nor does the volume ask for more renown, 
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time 

she drops it down. 



CANTO FIRST. 



List to the valorous deeds that were done 
By Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 
kind's son ! 

Count Witikind came of a regal strain, 
And roved with his Norsemen the land 

and the main. 
Woe to the realms which he coasted ! for 

there 
Was shedding of blood, and rending of hair, 
Rape of maiden, and slaughter of priest, 
Gathering of ravens and wolves to the feast : 
When he hoisted his standard black, 
Before him was battle, behind him wrack, 
And he bum'd the churches, that heathen 

Dane, 
To light his band to their barks again. 



%il 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS, 



4 



On Erin's shores was his outrage known, 
The winds of France had his banners 

blown ; 
Little was there to plunder, yet still 
His pirates had foray'd on Scottish hill : 
But upon merry England's coast 
More frequent he sail'd, for he won the 

most. 
So wide and so far his ravage they knew, 
If a sail but gleam'd white 'gainst the 

welkin blue, 
Trumpet and bugle to arms did call, 
Burghers hasten'd to man the wall, 
Peasants fled inland his fury to 'scape, 
Beacons were lighted on headland and cape, 
Bells were toll'd out, and aye as they rung, 
Fearful and faintly the gray brothers sung, 
" Bless us, St. Mary, from flood and from 

fire, 
From famine and pest, and Count Witi- 
kind's ire ! " 

in. 
He liked the wealth of fair England so well, 
That he sought in her bosom as native to 

dwell. 
He enter' d the Humber in fearful hour, 
And disembark'd with his Danish power. 
Three Earls came against him with all 

their train, — 
Two hath he taken, and one hath he slain. 
Count Witikind left the Humber's rich 

strand , 
And he wasted and warr'd in Northum- 
berland. 
But the Saxon King was a sire in age, 
Weak in battle, in council sage ; 
Peace of that heathen leader he sought, 
Gifts he gave, and quiet he bought ; 
And the Count took upon him the peace- 
able style 
Of a vassal and liegeman of Britain's 
broad isle. 

IV. 

Time will rust the sharpest sword, 
Time will consume the strongest cord ; 
That which moulders hemp and steel, 
Mortal arm and nerve must feel. 
Of the Danish band, whom Count Witi- 
kind led, 
Many wax'd aged, and many were dead : 
Himself found his armour full weighty to 

bear, 
Wrinkled his brows grew, and hoary his 
hair: 



He lean'd on a staff, when his step went 

abroad, 
And patient his palfrey, when steed he 

bestrode. 
As he grew feebler, his wildness ceased, 
He made himself peace with prelate and 

priest ; 
Made his peace, and, stooping his head, 
Patiently listed the counsel they said : 
Saint Cuthbert's Bishop was holy and 

grave, 
Wise and good was the counsel he gave. 



"Thou hast murder'd, robb'd, and spoil'd, 
Time it is thy poor soul were assoil'd ; 
Priests didst thou slay, and churches burn, 
Time it is now to repentance to turn ; 
Fiends hast thou worshipp'd, with fiendish 

rite, 
Leave now the darkness, and wend into 

light : 
O ! while life and space are given, 
Turn thee yet, and think of Heaven ! ' 
That stern old heathen his head he raised, 
And on the good prelate he steadfastly 

gazed ; 
" Give me broad lands on the Wear and 

the Tyne, 
My faith I will leave, and I'll cleave unto 

thine." 

VI. 

Broad lands he gave him on Tyrte and 

Wear, 
To be held of the Church by bridle and 

spear ; 
Part of Monkwearmouth, of Tyndale part, 
To better his will, and to soften his heart : 
Count Witikind was a joyful man, 
Less for the faith than the lands that he 

wan. 
The high church of Durham is dress'd 

for the day, 
The clergy are rank'd in their solemn 

array : 
There came the Count, in a bear-skin 

warm, 
Leaning on Hilda his concubine's arm. 
He kneel'd before Saint Cuthbert's shrine, 
With patience unwonted at rites divine ; 
He abjured the gods of heathen race, 
And he bent his head at the font of grace. 
But such was the grisly old proselyte's 

look, 
That the priest who baptized him grew 

pale and shook ; 



And the old monks mutter'd beneath their 

hood, 
" Of a stem so stubborn can never spring 

good! " 

VII. 
Up then arose that grim convertite, 
Homeward he hied him when ended the 

rite; 
The Prelate in honour will with him ride, 
And feast in his castle on Tyne's fair side. 
Banners and banderols danced in -the wind, 
Monks rode before them, and spearmen 

behind ; 
Onward they pass'd, till fairly did shine 
Pennon and cross on the bosom of Tyne ; 
And full in front did that fortress lower, 
In darksome strength with its buttress 

and tower : 
At the castle gate was young Harold there, 
Count Witikind's only offspring and heir. 

VIII. 

Young Harold was fear'd for his hardi- 
hood, 

His strength of frame, and his fury of 
mood. 

Rude he was and wild to behold, 
. Wore neither collar nor bracelet of gold, 

Cap of vair nor rich array, 

Such as should grace that festal day: 

His doublet of bull's hide was all un- 
braced, 

Uncover'd his head, and his sandal un- 
laced : 

His shaggy black locks on his brow hung 
low, 

And his eyes glanced through them a 
swarthy glow ; 

A Danish club in his hand he bore, 

The spikes were clotted with recent gore ; 

At his back a she-wolf, and her wolf- 
cubs twain, 

In the dangerous chase that morning slain. 

Rude was the greeting his father he made, 

None to the Bishop, — while thus hesaid : — 

IX. 

" What priest-led hypocrite art thou, 
With thy humbled look and thy monkish 

brow, 
Like a shaveling who studies to cheat his 

vow? 
Canst thou be Witikind the Waster 

known, 
Royal Eric's fearless son, 
Haughty Gunhilda's haughtier lord, 
Who won his bride by the axe and sword ; 



From the shrine of St. Peter the chalice 

who tore, 
And melted to bracelets for Freya and 

Thor ; 
With one blow of his gauntlet who burst 

the skull, 
Before Odin's stone, of the Mountain 

Bull ? 
Then ye worshipp'd with rites that to 

war-gods belong, 
With the deed of the brave, and the blow 

of the strong ; 
And now, in thine age to dotage sunk, 
Wilt thou patter thy crimes to a shaven 

monk, — 
Lay down thy mail-shirt for clothing of 

hair, — 
Fasting and scourge, like a slave, wilt thou 

bear? 
Or, at best, be admitted in slothful bower 
To batten with priest and with paramour? 
Oh ! out upon thine endless shame ! 
Each Scald's high harp shall blast thy 

fame, 
And thy son will refuse thee a father's 

name !" 

x. 
Ireful wax'd old Witikind's look, 
His faltering voice with fury shook : — 
" Hear me, Harold of harden'd heart ! 
Stubborn and wilful ever thou wert. 
Thine outrage insane I command thee to 

cease, 
Fear my wrath and remain at peace :— 
Just is the debt of repentance I've paid, 
Richly the Church has a recompense made, 
And the truth of her doctrines I prove with 

my blade, 
But reckoning to none of my actions I 

owe, 
And least to my son such accounting will 

show. 
Why speak I to thee of repentance or truth, 
Who ne'er from thy childhood knew rea- 
son or ruth ? 
Hence! to the wolf and the bear in herden ; 
Thesearethy mates, and not rational men. " 

XI. 

Grimly smiled Harold, and coldly replied, 
' ' We must honour our sires, if we fear 

when they chide. 
For me, I am yet what thy lessons have 

made, 
I was rock'd in a buckler and fed from a 

blade : 



3U 



SCOTT'S POMTICAL WORKS. 



An infant, was taught to clasp hands and 

to shout 
From the roofs of the tower when the flame 

had broke out ; 
In the blood of slain foemen my finger to 

dip, 
And tinge with its purple my cheek and 

my lip. — 
Tis thou know'st not truth, that hast bar- 

ter'd in eld, 
For a price, the brave faith that thine an- 
cestors held. 
When this wolf," — and the carcase he 

flung on the plain, — 
" Shall awake and give food to her nurs- 
lings again, 
The face of his father will Harold review ; 
Till then, aged Heathen, young Christian, 

adieu !" 

XII. 
Priest, monk, and prelate, stood aghast, 
As through the pageant the heathen pass'd. 
A cross-bearer out of his saddle he flung, 
Laid his hand on the pommel, and into it 

sprung. 
Loud was the shriek, and deep the groan, 
When the holy sign on the earth was 

thrown ! 
The fierceold Count unsheathed his brand, 
But the calmer Prelate stay'd his hand. 
" Ltt him pass free! — Heaven knows its 

hour, — 
But he must own repentance's power, 
Pray and weep, and penance bear, 
Ere he hold land by the Tyne and the 

Wear." 
Thus in scorn and in wrath from his father 

is gone 
Young Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 

XIII. 

High was the feasting in Witikind's hall, 

Revell'd priests, soldiers, and pagans, and 
all; 

And e'en the good Bishop was fain to en- 
dure 

The scandal, which time and instruction 
might cure : 

It were dangerous, he deem'd, at the first 
to restrain, 

In his wine and his wassail, a half-chris- 
ten' d Dane. 

The mead flow'd around, and the ale was 
drain'd dry, 

Wild was the laughter, the song, and the 
cry; 



With Kyrie Eleison, came clamorously in 
The war-songs of Danesmen, Norweyan, 

and Finn. 
Till man after man the contention gave 

o'er, 
Outstretch 'd on the rushes that strew'd the 

hall floor ; 
And the tempest within, having ceased its 

wild rout, 
Gave place to the tempest that thunder'd 

without. 

XIV. 

Apart from the wassail, in turret alone, 

Lay flaxen-hair'd Gunnar, old Ermen- 
garde's son ; 

In the train of Lord Harold that Page was 
the first, 

For Harold in childhood had Ermengarde 
nursed ; 

And grieved was young Gunnar his mas- 
ter should roam, 

Unhoused and unfriended, an exile from 
home. 

He heard the deep thunder, the plashing 
of rain, 

He saw the red lightning through shot- 
hole and pane ; 

"And oh!" said the Page, "on the shel- 
terless wold 

Lord Harold is wandering in darkness and 
cold ! 

What though he was stubborn, and way- 
ward, and wild, 

He endured me because I was Ermen- 
garde's child, — 

And often from dawn till the set of the sun, 

In the chase, by his stirrup, unbidden I run; 

I would I were older, and knighthood 
could bear, 

I would soon quit the banks of the Tyne 
and the Wear: 

For my mother's command, with her last 
parting breath, 

Bade me follow her nursling in life and to 
death. 

XV. 

" It pours and it thunders, it lightens 
amain, 

As if Lok, the Destroyer, had burst from 
his chain ! 

Accursed by the Church, and expell'd by 
his sire, 

Nor Christian nor Dane give him shelter or 
fire, 

And this tempest what mortal may house- 
less endure? 

Unaided, unmantled, he dies on the moor, 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



3*5 



Whate'er comes of Gunnar, he tarries not 

here." 
He leapt from his couch and he grasp' d to 

his spear ; 
Sought the hall of the feast. Undisturb'd 

by his tread, 
The wassailers slept fast as the sleep of the 

dead: 
" Unfrateful and bestial ! " his anger broke 

forth, 
" To forget 'mid your goblets the pride of 

the North ! 
And you, ye cowl'd priests, who have 

plenty in store, 
Must give Gunnar for ransom a palfrey 

and ore." 

XVI. 

Then, heeding full little of ban or of curse, 
He has seized on the Prior of Jorvaux's 

purse : 
Saint Meneholt's Abbot next morning has 

miss'd 
His mantle, deep furr'd from the cape to 

the wrist : 
The Seneschal's keys from his belt he has 

ta'en, 
(Well drench'd on that eve was old Hilde- 

brand's brain.) 
To the stable-yard he made his way, 
And mounted the Bishop's palfrey gay, 
Castle and hamlet behind him has cast, 
And right on his way to the moorland has 

pass'd. 
Sore snorted the palfrey, unused to face 
A weather so wild at so rash a pace ; 
So long he snorted, so loud he neigh'd, 
There answer'd a steed that was bound 

beside, 
And the red flash of lightning show'd there 

where lay 
His master, Lord Harold, outstretch'd on 

the clay. 

XVII. 

Up he started, and thunder'd out, ' ' Stand ! " 
And raised the club in his deadly hand. 
The flaxen-hair'd Gunnar his purpose told, 
Show'd the palfrey and proffer'd the gold, 
"Back, back, and home, thou simple 

boy! 
Thou canst not share my grief or joy : 
Have I not mark'd thee wail and cry 
When thou hast seen a sparrow die? 
And canst thou, as my follower should, 
Wade ankle-deep through foeman's blood, 
Dare mortal and immortal foe, 
The gods above, the fiends below, 



And man on earth, more hateful still, 
The very fountain-head of ill? 
Desperate of life, and careless of death, 
Lover of bloodshed, and slaughter, and 

scathe, 
Such must thou be with me to roam, 
And such thou canst not be — back, and 

home ! " 

XVIII. 
Young Gunnar shook like an aspen bough, 
As he heard the harsh voice and beheld 

the dark brow, 
And half he repented his purpose and vow. 
But now to draw back were bootless shame, 
And he loved his master, so urged his 

claim : 
' ' Alas ! if my arm and my courage be weak, 
Bear with me a while for old Ermengarde's 

sake; 
Nor deem so lightly of Gunnar's faith, 
As to fear he would break it for peril of 

death. 
Have I not risk'd it to fetch thee this gold, 
This surcoat and mantle to fence thee 

from cold? 
And, did I bear a baser mind, 
What lot remains if I stay behind ? 
The priests' revenge, thy father's wrath, 
A dungeon, and a shameful death." 

XIX. 
With gentler look Lord Harold eyed 
The Page, then turn'd his head aside ; 
And either a tear did his eyelash stain, 
Or it caught a drop of the passing rain. 
' ' Art thou an outcast, then ? " quoth he ; 
" The meeter page to follow me." 
'Twere bootless to tell what climes they 

sought, 
Ventures achieved, and battles fought ; 
How oft with few, how oft alone, 
Fierce Harold's arm the field hath won. 
Men swore his eye, that flash'd so red 
When each other glance was quench'd 

with dread, 
Bore oft a light of deadly flame, 
That ne'er from mortal courage came. 
Those limbs so strong, that mood so stern, 
That loved the couch of heath and fern, 
Afar from hamlet, tower, and town, 
More than to rest on driven down ; 
That stubborn frame, that sullen mood, 
Men deem'd must come of aught but good ; 
And they whisper'd, the great Master 

Fiend was at one 
With Harold the Dauntless, Count Witi- 

kind's son. 



316 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORJtS. 



Years after years had gone and fled, 
The good old Prelate lies lapp'd in lead ; 
In the chapel still is shown 
His sculptured form on a marble stone, 
With staff and ring and scapulaire, 
And folded hands in the act of prayer. 
Saint Cuthbert's mitre is resting now 
On the haughty Saxon, bold Aldingar's 

brow ; 
The power of his crozier he loved to extend 
O'er whatever would break, or whatever 

would bend ; 
And now hath he clothed him in cope and 

in pall, 
And the Chapter of Durham has met at 

his call. 
"And hear ye not, brethren," the proud 

Bishop said, 
"That our vassal, the Danish Count 

Witikind's dead ? 
All his gold and his goods hath he given 
To holy Church for the love of Heaven, 
And hath founded a chantry with stipend 

and dole, 
That priests and that beadsmen may pray 

for his soul : 
Harold his son is wandering abroad, 
Dreaded by man and abhorr'd by God ; 
Meet it is not, that such should heir 
The lands of the Church on the Tyne and 

the Wear, 
And at her pleasure, her hallow'd hands 
May now resume these wealthy lands." 

XXI. 

Answer'd good Eustace, a canon old, — 
"Harold is tameless, and furious, and bold ; 
Ever Renown blows a note of fame, 
And a note of fear, when she sounds his 

name; 
Much of bloodshed and much of scathe 
Have been their lot who have waked his 

wrath. 
Leave him these lands and lordships still , 
Heaven in its hour may change his will ; 
But if reft of gold, and of living bare, 
An evil counsellor is despair." 
More had he said, but the Prelate frown' d, 
And murmur'd his brethren who sate 

around, 
And with one consent have they given 

their doom, 
That the Church should the lands of Saint 

Cuthbert resume. 
So will'd the Prelate ; and canon and dean 
Gave to his judgment their loud amen. 



CANTO SECOND. 



'Tis merry in greenwood, — thus runs the 

old lay, — 
In the gladsome month of lively May, 
When the wild birds' song on stem and 
spray 

Invites to forest bower; 
Then rears the ash his airy crest, 
Then shines the birch in silver vest, 
And the beech in glistening leaves is drest, 
And dark between shows the oak's proud 
breast, 

Like a chieftain's frowning tower ; 
Though a thousand branches join their 

screen, 
Yet the broken sunbeams glance between, 
And tip the leaves with lighter green, 

With brighter tints the flower : 
Dull is the heart that loves not then 
The deep recess of the wildwood glen, 
Where roe and red-deer find sheltering den, 

When the sun is in his power. 



Less rnerry, perchance, is the fading leaf 
That follows so soon on the gather'd sheaf, 

When the greenwood loses the name ; 
Silent is then the forest bound, 
Save the redbreast's note, and the rustling 

sound 
Of frost-nipt leaves that are dropping 

round, 
Or the deep-mouth' d cry of the distant 
hound 

That opens on his game : 
Yet then, too, I love the forest wide, 
Whether the sun in splendour ride, 
And gild its many-colour'd side ; 
Or whether the soft and silvery haze, 
In vapoury folds, o'er the landscape strays, 
And half involves the woodland maze, 

Like an early widow's veil, 
Where wimpling tissue from the gaze 
The form half hides, and half betrays, ' 

Of beauty wan and pale. 



Fair Metelill was a woodland maid, 
Her father a rover of greenwood shade, 
By forest statutes undismay'd, 

Who lived by bow and quiver ; 
Well known was Wulfstane's archery, 
By merry Tyne both on moor and lea, 



Through wooded Weardale's glens so free, 
Well beside Stanhope's wildwood tree, 

And well on Ganlesse river. 
Yet free though he trespass'd on woodland 

game, 
More known and more fear'd was the 

wizard fame 
Of Jutta of Rookhope, the Outlaw's dame ; 
Fear'd when she frown'd was her eye of 
flame, 
More fear'd when in wrath she laugh'd ; 
I For, then, 'twas said, more fatal true 
| To its dread aim her spell-glance flew, 

I Than when from Wulfstane's bended yew 
Sprung forth the gray-goose shaft. 
IV. 

I Yet had this fierce and dreaded pair, 
I So Heaven decreed, a daughter fair ; 

None brighter crown'd the bed, 
j In Britain's bounds, of peer or prince, 
| Nor hath, perchance, a lovelier since, 

In this fair isle been bred. 
j And nought of fraud, or ire, or ill, 
: Was known to gentle Metelill, — 
A simple maiden she ; 
The spells in dimpled smile that lie, 
And a downcast blush, and the darts that 

fly 
With the sidelong glance of a hazel eye, 

Were her arms and witchery. 
So young, so simple was she yet, 
She scarce could childhood's joys forget, 
| And still she loved, in secret set 
Beneath the greenwood tree, 
To plait the rushy coronet, 
And braid with flowers her locks of jet, 

As when in infancy ; — 
Yet could that heart, so simple, prove 
The early dawn of stealing love : 

Ah ! gentle maid, beware ! 
The power who, now so mild a guest, 
Gives dangerous yet delicious zest 
To the calm pleasures of thy breast, 
Will soon, a tyrant o'er the rest, 
Let none his empire share. 



One morn, in kirtle green array'd, 
Deep in the wood the maiden stray'd, 

And, where a fountain sprung, 
She sate her down, unseen, to thread 
The scarlet berry's mimic braid, 

And while the beads she strung, 
Like the blithe lark, whose carol gay 
Gives a good-morrow to the day, 

So lightsomely she sung. 



SONG. 

"Lord William was born in gilded 

bower, 
The heir of Wilton's lofty tower ; 
Yet better loves Lord William now 
To roam beneath wild Rookhope's brow ; 
And William has lived where ladies fair 
With gawds and jewels deck their hair, 
Yet better loves the dewdrops still 
That pearl the locks of Metelill. 
" The pious Palmer loves, I wis, 
Saint Cuthbert's hallow "d beads to kiss ; 
But I, though simple girl I be, 
Might have sucli homage paid to me ; 
For did Lord William see me suit 
This necklace of the bramble's fruit, 
He fain — but must not have his will — 
Would kiss the beads of Metelill. 
" My nurse has told me many a tale, 
How vows of love are weak and frail ; 
My mother says that courtly youth 
By rustic maid means seldom sooth. 
What should they mean ? it cannot be, 
That such a warning's meant for me, 
For nought — oh ! nought of fraud or ill 
Can William mean to Metelill!" 



Sudden she stops — and starts to feel 
A weighty hand, a glove of steel, 
Upon her shrinking shoulders laid ; 
Fearful sb** turn'd, and saw, dismay'd, 
A Knight m plate and mail array'd, 
His crest and bearing worn and fray'd, 

His surcoat soil'd and riven, 
Form'd like that giant race of yore, 
Whose long-continued crimes outwore 

The sufferance of Heaven. 
Stern accents made his pleasure known, 
Though then he used his gentlest tone : 
" Maiden," he said, " sing forth thy glee. 
Start not — sing on — it pleases me." 

VIII. 

Secured within his powerful hold, 
To bend her knee, her hands to fold, 

Was all the maiden might ; 
And "Oh ! forgive," she faintly said, 
"The terrors of a simple maid, 

If thou art mortal wight? 
But if — of such strange tales are told — 
Unearthly warrior of the wold, 
Thou comest to chide mine accents bold, 
My mo;her, Jutta, knows the spell, 
At noon and midnight pleasing well 



3i8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The disembodied ear. 
Oh ! let her powerful charms atone 
For aught my rashness may have done, 

And cease thy grasp of fear." 
Then laugh'd the Knight — his laughter's 

sound 
Half in the hollow helmet drown'd ; 
His barred visor then he raised, 
And steady on the maiden gazed. 
He smooth' d his brows, as best he might, 
To the dread calm of autumn night, 

When sinks the tempest roar ; 
Yet still the cautious fishers eye 
The clouds, and fear the gloomy sky, 

And haul their barks on shore. 
ix. 
" Damsel," he said, " be wise and learn 
Matters of weight and deep concern : 

From distant realms I come, 
And, wanderer long, at length have plann'd 
In this my native Northern land 

To seek myself a home. 
Nor that alone— a mate I seek ; 
She must be gentle, soft, and meek, — 

No lordly dame for me ; 
Myself am something rough of mood, 
And feel the fire of royal blood, 
And therefore do not hold it good 

To match in my degree. 
Then, since coy maidens say my face 
Is harsh, my form devoid of grace, 
For a fair lineage to provide, 
'Tis meet that my selected bride 

In lineaments be fair ; 
I love thine well — till now I ne'er 
Look'd patient on a face of fear, 
But now that tremulous sob and tear 

Become thy beauty rare. 
One kiss — nay, damsel, coy it not ! — 
And now go seek thy parents' cot, 
And say, a bridegroom soon I come, 
To woo my love, and bear her home." 

x. 
Home sprung the maid without a pause, 
As leveret 'scaped from greyhound's jaws ; 
But still she lock'd, howe'er distress'd, 
The secret in her boding breast ; 
Dreading her sire, who oft forbade 
Her steps should stray to distant glade. 
Night came— to her accustom'd nook 
Her distaff aged Jutta took, 
And by the lamp's imperfect glow, 
Rough Wulfstane trimm'd his shafts and 

bow. 
Sudden and clamorous, from the ground 
Upstarted slumbering brach and hound ; 



Loud knocking next the lodge alarms, 
And Wulfstane snatches at his arms, 
When open flew the yielding door, 
And that grim Warrior press'd the floor. 



"All peace be here — What! none replies ! 
Dismiss your fears, and your surprise. 
'Tis I — that Maid hath told my tale, — 
Or, trembler, did thy courage fail? 
It recks not— It is I demand 
Fair Metelill in marriage band ; 
Harold the Dauntless 1, whose name 
Is brave men's boast and caitiffs shame." 
The parents sought each other's eyes, 
With awe, resentment, and surprise : 
Wulfstane, to quarrel prompt, began 
The stranger's size and thewes to scan ; 
But as he scann'd his courage sunk, 
And from unequal strife he shrunk, 
Then forth, to blight and blemish, flies 
The harmful curse from Jutta's eyes ;' 
Yet, fatal howsoe'er, the spell 
On Harold innocently fell ! 
And disappointment and amaze 
Were in the witch's wilder gaze. 



But soon the wit of woman woke, 
And to the Warrior mild she spoke : 
" Her child was all too young." — "A toy, 
The refuge of a maiden coy." — 
Again, "A powerful baron's heir 
Claims in her heart an interest fair." — 
' ' A trifle — whisper in his ear, 
That Harold is a suitor here!" — 
Baffled at length she sought delay : 
" Would not the knight till morning stay? 
Late was the hour — he there might rest 
Till morn, their lodge's honour'd guest." 
Such were her words, — her craft might 

cast, 
Her honour'd guest should sleep his last : 
" No, not to-night — but soon," he swore, 
"He would return, nor leave them more." 
The threshold then his huge stride crost, 
And soon he was in darkness lost. 



Appall' d a while the parents stood, 
Then changed their fear to angry mood, 
And foremost fell their words of ill 
On unresisting Metelill : 
Was she not caution'd and forbid, 
Forewarn'd, implored, accused, and chid, 
And must she still to greenwood roam, 
To marshal such misfortune home? 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



3*0 



" Hence, minion — to thy chamber hence — 
There prudence learn and penitence." 
She went — her lonely couch to steep 
In tears which absent lovers weep ; 
Or if she gain'd a troubled sleep, 
Fierce Harold's suit was still the theme 
And terror of her feverish dream. 



Scarce was she gone, her dame and sire 
Upon each other bent their ire ; 
" A woodsman thou, and hast a spear, 
And couldst thou such an insult bear?" 
Sullen he said, "A man contends 
With men, a witch with sprites and fiends ; 
Not to mere mortal wight belong 
Yon gloomy brow and frame so strong. 
But thou— is this thy promise fair, 
That your Lord William, wealthy heir 
To Ulrick, Baron of Witton-le-Wear, 
Should Metelill to altar bear ? 
Do all the spells thou boast' st as thine 
Serve but to slay some peasant's kine, 
His grain in autumn's storms to steep, 
Or thorough fog and fen to sweep, 
And hag-ride some poor rustic's sleep ? 
Is such mean mischief worth the fame 
Of sorceress and witch's name ? 
Fame, which with all men's wish conspires, 
With thy deserts and my desires, 
To damn thy corpse to penal fires ? 
Out on thee, witch ! aroint! aroint! 
What now shall put thy schemes in 

joint ? 
What save this trusty arrow's point, 
From the dark dingle when it flies, 
And he who meets it gasps and dies." 

xv. 
Stern she replied, " I will not wage 
War with thy folly or thy rage ; 
But ere the morrow's sun be low, 
Wulfstane of Rookhope, thou shalt know, 
If I can venge me on a foe. 
Believe the while, that whatsoe'er 
I spoke, in ire, of bow and spear, 
It is not Harold's destiny 
The death of pilfer' d deer to die. 
But he, and thou, and yon pale moon, 
(That shall be yet more pallid soon, 
Before she sink behind the dell,) 
Thou, she, and Harold too, shall tell 
What Jutta knows of charm or spell." 
Thus muttering, to the door she bent 
Her wayward steps, and forth she went, 
And left alone the moody sire, 
To cherish or to slake his ire. 



xvr. 
Far faster than belong'd to age 
Has Jutta made her pilgrimage. 
A priest has met her as she pass'd, 
And cross'd himself and stood aghast : 
She traced a hamlet — not a cur 
His throat would ope, his foot would stir; 
By crouch, by trembling, and by groan, 
They made her hated presence known ! 
But when she trode the sable fell, 
Were wilder sounds her way to tell, — 
For far was heard the fox's yell, 
The black-cock waked and faintly crew, 
Scream'd o'er the moss the scared curlew ; 
Where o'er the cataract the oak 
Lay slant, was heard the raven's croak ; 
The mountain-cat, which sought his prey, 
Glared, scream'd, and started from her way: 
Such music cheer' d her journey lone 
To the deep dell and rocking stone ; 
There, with unhallow'd hymn of praise, 
She called a God of heathen days. 



INVOCATION. 

" From thy Pomeranian throne, 
Hewn in rock of living stone, 
Where, to thy godhead faithful yet, 
Bend Esthonian, Finn, and Lett, 
And their swords in vengeance whet, 
That shall make thine altars wet, 
Wet and red for ages more 
With the Christians' hated gore, — 
Hear me ! Sovereign of the Rock, 
Hear me ! mighty Zernebock ! 

" Mightiest of the mighty known, 
Here thy wonders have been shown ; 
Hundred tribes in various tongue 
Oft have here thy praises sung ; 
Down that stone with Runic seam'd, 
Hundred victims' blood hath stream'd ! 
Now one woman comes alone, 
And but wets it with her own, 
The last, the feeblest of thy flock, — 
Hear — and be present, Zernebock ! 

" Hark! he comes! the night-blast cold 
Wilder sweeps along the wold ; 
The cloudless moon grows dark and dim, 
And bristling hair and quaking limb 
Proclaim the Master Demon nigh, — 
Those who view his form shall die ! 
Lo ! I stoop and veil my head ; 
Thou who ridest the tempest dread, 
Shaking hill and rending oak — 
Spare me ! spare me ' ZernerKC.k. 



320 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



' ' He comes not yet ! shall cold delay 
Thy votaress at her need repay ? 
Thou — shall I call thee god or fiend? — 
Let others on thy mood attend 
With prayer and ritual — Jutta's arms 
Are necromantic words and charms ; 
Mine is the spell, that, utter'd once, 
Shall wake Thy Master from his trance, 
Shake his red mansion-house of pain, 
And burst his seven-times-twisted chain !— 
So ! com'st thou ere the spell is spoke ? 
I own thy presence, Zernebock." — 

XVIII. 

" Daughter of dust," the Deep Voice said, 

— Shook while it spoke the vale for dread, 

Rock'd on the base that massive stone, 

The Evil Deity to own, — 

" Daughter of dust ! not mine the power 

Thou seek' st on Harold's fatal hour. 

'Twixt heaven and hell there is a strife 

Waged for his soul and for his life, 

And fain would we the combat win, 

And snatch him in his hour of sin. 

There is a star now rising red, 

That threats him with an influence dread : 

Woman, thine arts of malice whet, 

To use the space before it set. 

Involve him with the Church in strife, 

Push on adventurous chance his life ; 

Ourself will in the hour of need, 

As best we may thy counsels speed." 

So ceased the Voice; for seven leagues 

round 
Each hamlet started at the sound ; 
But slept again, as slowly died 
Its thunders on the hill's brown side. 

XIX. 

"And is this all," said Jutta stern, 
" That thou canst teach and I can learn? 
Hence ! to the land of fog and waste, 
There fittest is thine influence placed, 
Thou powerless, sluggish deity ! 
But ne'er shall Briton bend the knee 
Again before so poor a god." 
She struck the altar with her rod ; 
Slight was the touch, as when at need 
A damsel stirs her tardy steed ; 
But to the blow the stone gave place, 
And, starting from its balanced base, 
Roll'd thundering down the moonlight 

dell,— 
Re-echo'd moorland, rock, and fell ; 
Into the moonlight tarn it dash'd, 
Their shores the sounding surges lash'd, 

And there was ripple, rage, and foam ; 



But on that lake, so dark and lone, 
Placid and pale the moonbeam shon* 
As Jutta hied her home. 



CANTO THIRD. 

i. 
Gray towers of Durham ! there was 

once a time 
I view'd your battlements with such 

vague hope, 
As brightens life in its first dawning 

prime; 
Not that e'en then came within fancy's 

scope 
A vision vain of mitre, throne, or cope ; 
Yet, gazing on the venerable hall, 
Her flattering dreams would in per- 
spective ope 
Some reverend room, some prebendary's 

stall,— 
And thus Hope me deceived as she de- 

ceiveth all. 

Well yet I love thy mix'd and massive 

piles, 
Half church of God, half castle 'gainst 

the Scot, 
And long to roam these venerable aisles, 
With records stored of deeds long since 

forgot ; 
There might I share my Surtees' happier 

lot, 
Who leaves at will his patrimonial field 
To ransack every crypt and hallow'd 

spot, 
And from oblivion rend the spoils they 

yield, 
Restoring priestly chant and clang of 

knightly shield. 

Vain is the wish — since other cares de 

mand 
Each vacant hour, and in another clime ; 
But still that northern harp invites my 

hand, 
Which tells the wonder of thine earlier 

time ; 
And fain its numbers would I now com- 
mand 
To paint the beauties of that dawning 

fair, 
When Harold, gazing from its lofty stand, 
Upon the western heights of Beaure- 

paire, 
Saw Saxon Eadmer's towers begirt by 

winding Wear. 



Fair on the half-seen stream the sun- 
beams danced, 

Betraying it beneath the woodland bank, 

And fair between the Gothic turrets 
glanced 

Broad lights, and shadows fell on front 
and flank. 

Where tower and buttress rose in martial 
rank, 

And girdled in the massive donjon Keep, 

And from their circuit peal'd o'er bush 
and bank 

The matin bell with summons long and 
deep, 
And echo answer'd still with long-resound- 
ing sweep. 

in. 
The morning mists rose from the ground, 
Each merry bird awaken'd round, 

As if in revelry ; 
Afar the bugles' clanging sound 
Call'd to the chase the lagging hound ; 

The gale breathed soft and free, 
And seem'd to linger on its way 
To catch fresh odours from the spray, 
And waved it in its wanton play 

So light and gamesomely. 
The scenes which morning beams reveal, 
Its sounds to hear, its gales to feel 
In all their fragrance round him steal, 
It melted Harold's heart of steel, 

And, hardly wotting why, 
He doffd his helmet's gloomy pride, 
And hung it on a tree beside, 

Laid mace and falchion by, 
And on the greensward sate him down, 
And from his dark habitual frown 

Relax'd his rugged brow — 
Whoever hath the doubtful task 
From that stern Dane a boon to ask, 

Were wise to ask it now. 



His place beside young Gunnar took, 
And mark'd his master's softening look, 
And in his eye's dark mirror spied 
The gloom of stormy thoughts subside, 
And cautious watch'd the fittest tide 

To speak a warning word. 
So when the torrent's billows shrink, 
The timid pilgrim on the brink 
Waits long to see them wave and sink, 

Ere he dare brave the ford, 
And often, after doubtful pause, 
His step advances or withdraws : 



Fearful to move the slumbering ire 
Of his stern lord, thus stood the squire, 

Till Harold raised his eye, 
That glanced as when athwart the shroud 
Of the dispersing tempest-cloud 

The bursting sunbeams fly. 



"Arouse thee, son of Ermengarde, 
Offspring of prophetess and bard ! 
Take harp, and greet this lovely prime 
With some high strain of Runic rhyme, 
Strong, deep, and powerful ! Peal it round 
Like that loud bell's sonorous sound, 
Yet wild by fits, as when the lay 
Of bird and bugle hail the day. 
Such was my grandsire Eric's sport, 
When dawn gleam' d on his martial court. 
Heymar the Scald, with harp's high sound, 
Summon'd the chiefs who slept around ; 
Couch'd on the spoils of wolf and bear, 
They roused like lions from their lair, 
Then rush'd in emulation forth 
To enhance the glories of the North. — 
Proud Eric, mightiest of thy race, 
Where is thy shadowy resting-place? 
In wild Valhalla hast thou quaff'd 
From foeman's skull metheglin draught, 
Or wanderest where thy cairn was piled 
To frown o'er oceans wide and wild? 
Or have the milder Christians given 
Thy refuge in their peaceful heaven? 
Where'er thou art, to thee are known 
Our toils endured, our trophies won, 
Our wars, our wanderings, and our woes." 
He ceased, and Gunnar's song arose. 

VI. 

SONG. 

" Hawk and osprey scream' d for joy 
O'er the beetling cliffs of Hoy, 
Crimson foam the beach o'erspread, 
The heath was dyed with darker red, 
When o'er Eric, Inguar's son, 
Dane and Northman piled the stone ; 
Singing wild the war-song stern, 
' Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 

" Where eddying currents foam and boil J 
By Bersa's burgh and Grasmsay's isle, 
The seaman sees a martial form 
Half-mingled with the mist and storm. 
In anxious awe he bears away 
To moor his bark in Stromna's bay, 
And murmurs from the bounding stern, 
' Rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! ' 

21 



322 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



"What cares disturb the mighty dead? 
Each honour'd rite was duly paid ; 
No daring hand thy helm unlaced, 
Thy sword, thy shield, were near thee 

placed, — 
Thy flinty couch no tear profaned, ' 
Without, with hostile blood was stain'd ; 
Within, 'twas lined with moss and 

fern, — 
Then rest thee, Dweller of the Cairn ! " 

" He may not rest : from realms afar 
Comes voice of battle and of war, 
Of conquest wrought with bloody hand 
On Carmel's cliffs and Jordan's strand, 
When Odin's warlike son could daunt 
The turban'd race of Termagaunt." 

VII. 

"Peace," said the Knight, "the noble 

Scald 
Our warlike fathers' deeds recall'd, 
But never strove to soothe the son 
With tales of what himself had done. 
At Odin's board the bard sits high 
Whose harp ne'er stoop'd to flattery ; 
But highest he whose daring lay 
Hath dared unwelcome truths to say." 
With doubtful smile young Gunnar 

eyed 
His master's looks, and nought replied — 
But well that smile his master led 
To construe what he left unsaid. 
" Is it to me, thou timid youth, 1 
Thou fear'st to speak unwelcome truth? 
My soul no more thy censure grieves 
Than frosts rob laurels of their leaves. 
Say on — and yet — beware the rude 
And wild distemper of my blood ; 
Loth were I that mine ire should wrong 
The youth that bore my shield so long, 
And who, in service constant still, 
Though weak in frame, art strong in 

will."— 
"Oh!" quoth the page, "even there de- 
pends • 
My counsel — there my warning tends — 
Oft seems as of my master's breast 
Some demon were the sudden guest ; 
Then at the first misconstrued word 
His hand is on the mace and sword, 
From her firm seat his wisdom driven, 
His life to countless dangers given. — 
O ! would that Gunnar could suffice 
To be the fiend's last sacrifice, 
So that, when glutted with my gore, 
He fled and tempted thee no more ! " 



VIII. 

Then waved his hand, and shook his head, 
The impatient Dane, while thus he said: 
" Profane not, youth— it is not thine 
To judge the spirit of our line — 
The bold Berserkar's rage divine, 
Through whose inspiring, deeds are 

wrought 
Past human strength and human thought. 
When full upon his gloomy soul 
The champion feels the influence roll, 
He swims the lake, he leaps the wall — 
Heeds not the depth, nor plumbs the fall — 
Unshielded, mail-less, on he goes 
Singly against a host of foes ; 
Their spears he holds like wither'd reeds, 
Their mail like maiden's silken weeds; 
One 'gainst a hundred will he strive, 
Take countless wounds, and yet survive. 
Then rush the eagles to his cry 
Of slaughter and of victory, — 
And blood he quaffs like Odin's bowl, 
Deep drinks his sword, — deep drinks his 

soul; 
And all that meet him in his ire 
He gives to ruin, rout, and fire ; 
Then, like gorged lion, seeks some den, 
And couches till he's man agen. — 
Thou know'st the signs of look and limb, 
When 'gins that rage to overbrim — 
Thou know'st when I am moved, and 

why; 
And when thou seest me roll mine eye, 
Set my teeth thus, and stamp my foot, 
Regard thy safety and be mute ; 
But else speak boldly out whate'er 
Is fitting that a knight should hear. 
I love thee, youth. Thy lay has power 
Upon my dark and sullen hour ; — 
So Christian monks are wont to say 
Demons of old were charm'd away ; 
Then fear not I will rashly deem 
111 of thy speech, whate'er the theme." 

IX. 

As down some strait in doubt and dread 
The watchful pilot drops the lead, 
And, cautious in the midst to steer, 
The shoaling channel sounds with fear ; 
So, lest on dangerous ground he swerved, 
The Page his master's brow observed, 
Pausing at intervals to fling 
His hand o'er the melodious string, 
And to his moody breast apply 
The soothing charm of harmony, 
While hinted half, and half exprest, 
This warning song convey'd the rest. — 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



323 



SONG. 
I. 

" 111 fares the bark with tackle riven, 
And ill when on the breakers driven, — 
111 when the storm-sprite shrieks in air, 
And the scared mermaid tears her hair ; 
But worse when on her helm the hand 
Of some false traitor holds command. 

2. 
" 111 fares the fainting Palmer, placed 
'Mid Hebron's rocks or Rana's waste, — 
111 when the scorching sun is high, 
And the expected font is dry, — 
Worse when his guide o'er sand and heath, 
The barbarous Copt, has plann'd his death. 

3- 
" 111 fares the Knight with buckler cleft, 
And ill when of his helm bereft, — 
111 when his steed to earth is flung, 
Or from his grasp his falchion wrung ; 
But worse, if instant ruin token, 
When he lists rede by woman spoken." — 



V How now, fond boy?— Canst thou think 

ill," 
Said Harold, "of fair Metelill?"— 
" She may be fair," the Page replied, 

As through the strings he ranged, — 
"She may be fair; but yet," he cried, 

And then the strain he changed, 



" She may be fair," he sang, "but yet 

Far fairer have I seen 
Than she, for all her locks of jet, 

And eyes so dark and sheen. 
Were I a Danish knight in arms, 

As one day I may be, 
My heart should own no foreign charms, 

A Danish maid for me. 

2. 

" I love my fathers' northern land, ; 

Where the dark pine-trees grow, 
And the bold Baltic's echoing strand 

Looks o'er each grassy oe.* 
I love to mark the lingering sun, 

From Denmark loth to go, 
And leaving on the billows bright, 
To cheer the short-lived summer night, 

A path of ruddy glow. 

* Oe. Island. 



"But most the northern maid I love, 

With breast like Denmark's snow, 
And form as fair as Denmark's pine, 
Who loves with purple heath to twine 

Her locks of sunny glow ; 
And sweetly blends that shade of gold 

With the cheek's rosy hue, 
And Faith might for her mirror hold 

That eye of matchless blue. 

4- 
" 'Tis hers the manly sports to love 

That southern maidens fear, 
To bend the bow by stream and grove, 

And lift the hunter's spear. 
She can her chosen champion's flight 

With eye undazzled see, 
Clasp him victorious from the strife, 
Or on his corpse yield up her life, — 

A Danish maid for me ! " 

xr. 
Then smiled the Dane — "Thou canst so 

well 
The virtues of our maidens tell, 
Half could I wish my choice had been 
Blue eyes, and hair of golden sheen, 
And lofty soul ; — yet what of ill 
Hast thou to charge on Metelill ?" — 
" Nothing on her," young Gunnar said, 
" But her base sire's ignoble trade. 
Her mother, too — the general fame 
Hath given to Jutta evil name, 
And in her gray eye is a flame 
Art cannot hide, nor fear can tame. — 
That sordid woodman's peasant cot 
Twice have thine honour'd footsteps 

sought, 
And twice return'd with such ill rede 
As sent thee on some desperate deed." — 

XII. 

"Thou errest ; Jutta wisely said, 
He that comes suitor to a maid, 
Ere link'd in marriage, should provide 
Lands and a dwelling for his Lndc — 
My father's, by the Tyne and Wear 
I have reclaim'd." — " O, all too dear, 
And all too dangerous the prize, 
E'en were it won," young Gunnar cries ,- - 
"And then this Jutta' s fresh device, 
That thou shouldst seek, a heathen Dane, 
From Durham's priests a boon to gain, 
When thou hast left their vassals slain 
In their own halls!" — Flash'd Harold's 

eye, 
Thunder'd his voice—" False Page, you lie! 



;-4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The castle, hall and tower, is mine, 
Built by old Witikind on Tyne. 
The wild-cat will defend his den, 
Fights for her nest the timid wren ; 
And think'st thou I'll forego my right 
For dread of monk or monkish knight ? 
Up and away, that deepening bell 
Doth of the Bishop's conclave tell. 
Thither will I, in manner due, 
As Jutta bade, my claim to sue ; 
And, if to right me they are loth, 
Then woe to church and chapter both ! " 
Now shift the scene, and let the curtain 

fall, 
And our next entry be Saint Cuthbert's 

hall. 



CANTO IV. 
I. 
Full many a bard hath sung the solemn 

gloom . 

Of the long Gothic aisle and stone- 

ribb'd roof, 
O'er-canopying shrine, and gorgeous 

tomb, 
Carved screen, and altar glimmering far 

aloof, 
And blending with the shade, — a match- 
less proof 
Of high devotion, which hath now wax'd 

cold; 
Yet legends say, that Luxury's brute 

hoof 
Intruded oft within such sacred fold, 
Like step of Bel's false priest, track'd in 

his fane of old. 
Well pleased am I, howe'er, that when 

the rout 
Of our rude neighbours whilome deign'd 

to come, 
Uncall'd, and eke unwelcome, to sweep 

out 
And cleanse our chancel from the rags 

of Rome, 
They spoke not on our ancient fane the 

doom 
To which their bigot zeal gave o'er their 

own, 
But spared the martyr'd saint and storied 

tomb, 
Though papal miracles had graced the 

stone, 
And though the aisles still loved the organ's 

swelling tone. 



And deem not, though 'tis now my part 

to paint 
A Prelate sway'd by love of power and 

gold, 
That all who wore the mitre of our Saint 
Like to ambitious Aldingar I hold ; 
Since both in modern times and days of 

old 
It sate on those whose virtues might 

atone 
Their predecessors' frailties trebly told ; 
Matthew and Morton we as such may 

own — 
And such (if fame speak truth) the 

honour' d Barrington. 

ir. 

But now to earlier and to ruder times, 
As subject meet, I tune my rugged 

rhymes, 
Telling how fairly the chapter was met, 
And rood and books in seemly order set ; 
Huge brass-clasp'd volumes, which the 

hand 
Of studious priest but rarely scann'd, 
Now on fair carved desk display' d, 
'Twos theirs the solemn scene to aid. 
O'erhead with many a scutcheon graced, 
And quai.it devices interlaced, 
A labyrinth of crossing rows, 
The roof in lessening arches shows ; 
Beneath its shade placed proud and high, 
With footstool and with canopy, 
Sate Aldingar, — and prelate ne'er 
More haughty graced Saint Cuthbert's 

chair ; 
Canons and deacons were placed below, 
In due degree and lengthen'd row. 
Unmoved and silent each sat there, 
Like image in his oaken chair ; 
Nor head, nor hand, nor foot they 

stirr'd , 
Nor lock of hair, nor tress of beard ; 
And of their eyes severe alone 
The twinkle show'd they were not stone. 

in. 
The Prelate was to speech address'd, 
Each head sunk reverent on each breast ; 
But ere his voice was heard — without 
Arose a wild tumultuous shout, . 
Offspring of wonder mix'd with fear, 
Such as in crowded streets we hear 
Hailing the flames, that, bursting out, 
Attract yet scare the rabble rout. 
Ere it had ceased, a giant hand 
Shook oaken door and iron band, 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



325 



Till oak and iron both gave way, 
Clash'd the long bolts, the hinges bray, 
And, ere upon angel or saint they can 

call, 
Stands Harold the Dauntless in midst of 
the hall. 

IV. 

" Now save ye, my masters, both rochet 

and rood, 
From Bishop with mitre to Deacon with 

hood! 
For here stands Count Harold, old Witi- 

kind's son, 
Come to sue for the lands which his ances- 
tors won." 
The Prelate look'd round him with sore 

troubled eye, 
Unwilling to grant, yet afraid to deny ; 
While each Canon and Deacon who heard 

the Dane speak, 
To be safely at home would have fasted a 

week : — 
Then Aldingar roused him, and answer' d 

again, 
" Thou suest for a boon which thou canst 

not obtain ; 
The Church hath no fiefs for an unchris- 

ten'd Dane. 
Thy father was wise, and his treasure hath 

given, 
That the priests of a chantry might hymn 

him to heaven ; 
And the fiefs which whilome he possess'd 

as his due, 
Have lapsed to the Church, and been 

granted anew 
To Anthony Conyers and Alberic Vere, 
For the service Saint Cuthbert's bless'd 

banner to bear, 
When the bands of the North come to 

foray the Wear ; 
Then disturb not our conclave with wrang- 
ling or blame, 
But in peace and in patience pass hence 

as ye came." 

v. 
Loud laugh'd the stern Pagan, — " They're 

free from the care 
Of fief and of service, both Conyers and 

Vere, — 
Six feet of your chancel is all they will need, 
A buckler of stone and a corslet of lead. — 
Ho, Gunnar! — the tokens ;" — and, sever'd 

anew, 
A head and a hand on the altar he 

threw. 



Then shudder'd with terror both Canon 
and Monk, 

They knew the glazed eye and the coun- 
tenance shrunk, 

And of Anthony Conyers the half-grizzled 
hair, 

And the scar on the hand of Sir Alberic 
Vere. 

There was not a churchman or priest that 
was there, 

But grew pale at the sight, and betook 
him to prayer. 

VI. 

Count Harold laugh'd at their looks of 

fear: 
1 * Was this the hand should your banner 

bear? 
Was that the head should wear the casque 
In battle at the Church's task? 
Was it to such you gave the place 
Of Harold with the heavy mace? 
Find me between the Wear and Tyne 
A knight will wield this club of mine, — 
Give him my fiefs, and I will say 
There's wit beneath the cowl of gray." 
He raised it, rough with many a stain, - 
Caught from crush'd skull and spouting 

brain ! 
He wheel' d it that it shrilly sung, 
And the aisles echo'd as it swung, 
Then dash'd it down with sheer descent, 
And split King Osric's monument. — 
" How like ye this music! How trow ye 

the hand 
That can wield such a mace may be reft 

of its land ? 
No answer? — I spare ye a space to agree, 
And Saint Cuthbert inspire you, a saint if 

he be. 
Ten strides through your chancel, ten 

strokes on your bell, 
And again I am with you — grave fathers, 

farewell." 

VII. 

He turn'd from their presence, he clash'd 

the oak door, 
And the clang of his stride died away on 

the floor ; 
And his head from his bosom the Prelate 

up rears 
With a ghost-seer's look when the ghost 

disappears. 
" Ye Priests of Saint Cuthbert, now give 

me your rede, 
For never of counsel had Bishop more 

needl 



4- 



326 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Were the arch fiend incarnate in flesh 

and in bone, 
The language, the look, and the laugh 

were his own. 
In the bounds of Saint Cuthbert there is 

not a knight 
Dare confront in our quarrel yon goblin 

in fight ; 
Then rede me aright to his claim to reply, 
'Tis unlawful to grant, and 'tis death to 

deny." 

VIII. 

On venison and malmsie that morning 

had fed 
The Cellarer Vinsauf — 'twas thus that he 

said : 
' ' Delay till to-morrow the Chapter's reply ; 
Let the feast be spread fair, and the wine 

be pour'd high : 
If he's mortal he drinks, — if he drinks, he 

is ours — 
His bracelets of iron, — his bed in our 

towers." 
This man had a laughing eye, 
Trust not, friends, when such you spy ; 
A beaker's depth he well could drain, 
Revel, sport, and jest amain — 
The haunch of the deer and the grape's 

bright dye 
Never bard loved them better than I ; 
But sooner than Vinsauf fill'd me my wine, 
Pass'd me his jest, and laugh'd at mine, 
Though the buck were of Bearpark, of 

Bordeaux the vine, 
With the dullest hermit I'd rather dine 
On an oaken cake and a draught of the 

Tyne. 

IX. 

Walwayn the leech spoke next — he knew 
Each plant that loves the sun and dew, 
But special those whose juice can gain 
Dominion o'er the blood and brain ; 
The peasant who saw him by pale moon- 
beam 
Gathering such herbs by bank and stream, 
Deem'd his thin form and soundless tread 
Were those of wanderer from the dead. — 
"Vinsauf, thy wine," he said, "hath 

power, 
Our gyves are heavy, strong our tower ; 
Yet three drops from this flask of mine, 
More strong than dungeons, gyves, or wine, 
Shall give him prison under ground 
More dark, more narrow, more profound. 
Short rede, good rede, let Harold have — 
A dog's death, and a heathen's grave." 



I have lain on a sick man's bed, 
Watching for hours for the leech's tread, 
As if I deem'd that his presence alone 
Were of power to bid my pain begone ; 
I have listed his words of comfort given, 
As if to oracles from heaven ; 
I have counted his steps from my chamber 

door, 
And bless'd them when they were heard 

no more ; — 
But sooner than Walwayn my sick couch 

should nigh, y 

My choice were, by leech-craft unaided, 

to die. 

x. 
' ' Such service done in fervent zeal 
The Church may pardon and conceal," 
The doubtful Prelate said, ' ' but ne'er 
The counsel ere the act should hear. — 
Anselm of Jarrow, advise us now, 
The stamp of wisdom is on thy brow ; 
Thy days, thy nights, in cloister pent, 
Are still to mystic learning lent ; — 
Anselm of Jarrow, in thee is my hope, 
Thou well may'st give counsel to Prelate 

or Pope." 

XI. 

Answer'd the Prior — " 'Tis wisdom's use 
Still to delay what we dare not refuse : 
Ere granting the boon he comes hither to ask, 
Shape for the giant gigantic, task ; 
Let us see how a step so sounding can 

tread 
In paths of darkness, danger, and dread ; 
He may not, he will not, impugn our 

decree, 
That calls but for proof of his chivalry; 
And were Guy to return, or Sir Bevis the 

Strong, 
Our wilds have adventure might cumber 

them long — 
The Castle of Seven Shields" " Kind 

Anselm, no more ! 
The step of the Pagan approaches the 

door." 
The churchmen were hush'd. — In his 

mantle of skin, 
With his mace on his shoulder, Count 

Harold strode in. 
There was foam on his lips, there was fire 

in his eye, 
For, chafed by attendance, his fury was nigh. 
"Ho! Bishop, " he said, " dost thou grant 

me my claim? 
Or must I assert it by falchion and 

flame ? " — 



~T 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



VI 



" On thy suit, gallant Harold," the Bishop 

replied, 
In accents which trembled, " we may not 

decide, 
Until proof of your strength and your 

valour we saw — 
Tis not that we doubt them, but such is 

the law." — 
"And would you, Sir Prelate, have Harold 

make sport 
For the cowls and the shavelings that 

herd in thy court ? 
Say what shall he do?— From the shrine 

shall he tear 
The lead bier of thy patron, and heave it 

in air, 
And through the long chancel make 

Cuthbert take wing, 
With the speed of a bullet dismiss'd from 

the sling?" — 
" Nay, spare such probation," the Cellarer 

said, 
"From the mouth of our minstrels thy 

task shall be read. 
While the wine sparkles high in the goblet 

of gold, [told ; 

And the revel is loudest, thy task shall be 
And thyself, gallant Harold, shall, hear- 
ing it, tell 
That the Bishop, his cowls, and his shave- 
lings, meant well." 

XIII. 

Loud revell'd the guests, and the goblets 

loud rang, 
But louder the minstrel, Hugh Meneville, 

sang; 
And Harold, the hurry and pride of 

whose soul, 
E'en when verging to fury, own'd music's 

control, 
Still bent on the harper his broad sable eye, 
And often untasted the goblet pass'd by; 
Than wine, or than wassail, to him was 

more dear 
The minstrel's high tale of enchantment to 

hear; 
And the Bishop that day might of Vinsauf 

complain 
That his art had but wasted his wine-casks 

in vain. 

XIV. 
THE CASTLE OF THE SEVEN SHIELDS. 

A Ballad. 
The Druid Urien had daughters seven, 
Their skill could call the moon from 
heaven ; 



So fair their forms and so high their 

fame, 
That seven proud kings for their suitors 

came. 

King Mador and Rhys came from Powis 
and Wales, 

Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned 
were their nails ; 

From Strath - Clwyde was Ewain, and 
Ewain was lame, 

And the red-bearded Donald from Gal- 
loway came. 

Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd 
from youth ; 

Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth ; 

But Adolf of Bambrough, Northumber- 
land's heir, 

Was gay and was gallant, was young and 
was fair. 

There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for 

each one would have 
For husband King Adolf, the gallant and 

brave ; 
And envy bred hate, and hate urged them 

to blows, 
When the firm earth was cleft, and the 

Arch-fiend arose ! 

He swore to the maidens their wish to 

fulfil— 
They swore to the foe they would work by 

his will. 
A spindle and distaff to each hath he 

given, 
"Now hearken my spell," said the Outcast 

of heaven. 

"Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight 
hour, 

And for every spindle shall rise a tower, 

Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong 
shall have power, 

And there shall ye dwell with your para- 
mour." 

Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on 

the- wold, 
And the rhymes which they chanted must 

never be told ; 
And as the black wool from the distaff 

they sped, 
With blood from their bosom they 

moisten'd the thread. 

As light danced the spindles beneath the 

cold gleam, 
The castle arose like the birth of a 

dream — 



32S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



The seven towers ascended like mist from 

the ground, 
Seven portals defend them, seven ditches 

surround. 

Within that dread castle seven monarchs 
were wed, 

But six of the seven ere the morning lay- 
dead ; 

With their eyes all on fire, and their 
daggers all red. 

Seven damsels surround the Northum- 
brian's bed. 

" Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have 

done, 
Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath 

won , 
Six lovely brides all his pleasures to do, 
Or the bed of the seventh shall be hus- 

bandless too." 

Well chanced it that Adolf the night when 
he wed, 

Had confess'd and had sain'd him ere 
boune to his bed ; 

He sprung from the couch and his broad- 
sword he drew, 

And there the seven daughters of Urien he 
slew. 

The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd, 
And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown 

and a shield ; 
To the cells of Saint Dunstan then wended 

his way, 
And died in his cloister an anchorite gray. 

Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies 

stow'd, 
The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven 

* and toad. 
Whoever shall guesten these chambers 

within, 
From curfew till matins, that treasure 

shall win. 

But manhood grows faint as the world 

waxes old ! 
There lives not in Britain a champion so 

bold, 
So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of 

brain, 
As to dare the adventure" that treasure to 

gain. 

The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with 
the rye, 

Before the rude Scots shall Northumber- 
land fly, 



And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt 

in the sun, 
Before that adventure be perill'd and won. 

XV. 

"And is this my probation ? " wild Harold 

he said, 
"Within a lone castle to press a lone 

bed?— 
Good even, my Lord Bishop, — Saint 

Cuthbert to borrow, 
The Castle of Seven Shields receives me 

to-morrow." 



CANTO FIFTH. 



Denmark's sage courtier to her princely 
youth, 

Granting his cloud an ouzel or a whale, 

Spoke, though unwittingly, a partial 
truth ; 

For Fantasy embroiders Nature's veil. 

The tints of ruddy eve, or dawning pale, 

Of the swart thunder-cloud, or silver 
haze, 

Are but the ground-work of the rich 
detail 

Which Fantasy with pencil wild por- 
trays, 
Blending what seems and is, in the rapt 
muser's gaze. 

Nor are the stubborn forms of earth and 

stone 
Less to the Sorceress's empire given ; 
For not with unsubstantial hues alone, 
Caught from the varying surge, or 

vacant heaven, 
From bursting sunbeam, or from flash- 
ing levin, 
She limns her pictures : on the earth, as 

air, 
Arise her castles, and her car is driven ; 
And never gazed the eye on scene so 

fair, 
But of its boasted charms gave Fancy half 

the share. 

II. 
Up a wild pass went Harold, bent to 

prove, 
Hugh Meneville, the adventure of thy 

lay; 
Gunnar pursued his steps in faith and 

love, 
Ever companion of his master's way 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



329 



Mid ward their path, a rock of granite 
gray 

From the adjoining cliff had made de- 
scent, — 

A barren mass— yet with her drooping 
spray 

Had a young birch-tree crown'd its 
battlement, 
Twisting her fibrous roots through cranny, 
flaw, and rent. 

This rock and tree could Gunnar"s 

thought engage 
Till Fancy brought the tear-drop to his 

eye, 
And at his master ask'd the timid Page, 
" What is the emblem that a bard should 

spy 
In that rude rock and its green canopy? " 
And Harold said, ' ' Like to the helmet 

brave 
Of warrior slain in fight it seems to lie, 
And these same drooping boughs do o'er 

it wave 
Not all unlike the plume his lady's favour 

gave." — 

"Ah, no!" replied the Page; "the ill- 
starr'd love 

Of some poor maid is in the emblem 
shown, 

Whose fates are with some hero's inter- 
wove, 

And rooted on a heart to love unknown : 

And as the gentle dews of heaven alone 

Nourish those drooping boughs, and as 
the scathe 

Of the red lightning rends both tree and 
stone, 

So fares it with her unrequited faith, — 
Her sole relief is tears — her only refuge 



death.' 



in. 



" Thou art a fond fantastic boy," 
Harold replied, " to females coy, 

Yet prating still of love ; 
Even so amid the clash of war 
I know thou lovest to keep afar, 
Though destined by thy evil star 

With one like me to rove, 
Whose business and whose joys are found 
Upon the bloody battle-ground. 
Yet, foolish trembler as thou art, 
Thou hast a nook of my rude heart, 
And thou and I will never part ; — 
Harold would wrap the world in flame 
Ere injury on Gunnar came ! '' 



The grateful Page made no reply, 
But turn'd to Heaven his gentle eye, 
And clasp'd his hands, as one who said, 
" My toils — my wanderings are o'erpaid !' 
Then in a gayer, lighter strain, 
Compell'd himself to speech again ; 

And, as they flow'd along, 
His words took cadence soft and slow, 
And liquid, like dissolving snow, 

They melted into song. 

V. 
"What though through fields of carnage 

wide 
I may not follow Harold's stride, 
Yet who with faithful Gunnar's pride 

Lord Harold's feats can see? 
And dearer than the couch of pride 
He loves the bed of gray wolf's hide, 
When slumbering by Lord Harold's side 

In forest, field, or lea." — ' 

VI. 

" Break off! " said Harold, in a tone 
Where hurry and surprise were shown, 

With some slight touch of fear, — 
" Break off! we are not here alone; 
A Palmer form comes slowly on ! 
By cowl, and staff, and mantle known, 

My monitor is near. 
Now mark him, Gunnar, needfully; 
He pauses by the blighted tree — 
Dost see him, youth? — Thou couldst not 

see 
When in the vale of Galilee 

I first beheld his form, 
Nor when we met that other while 
In Cephalonia's rocky isle, 

Before the fearful storm, — 
Dost see him now?" — The Page, dis- 
traught 
With terror, answer'd, "I see nought, 

And there is nought to see, 
Save that the oak's scathed boughs fling 

down 
Upon the path a shadow brown, 
That, like a pilgrim's dusky gown, 

Waves with the waving free." 

VII. 

Count Harold gazed upon the oak 
As if his eyestrings would have broke, 

And then resolvedly said, — 
' ' Be what it will yon phantom gray— 
Nor heaven nor hell shall ever say 
That for their shadows from his way 

Count Harold turn'd dismay'd ; 



330 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



I'll speak him, though his accents fill 
My heart with that unwonted thrill 

Which vulgar minds call fear. 
I will subdue it ! " — Forth he strode, 
Paused where the blighted oak-tree show'd 
Its sable shadow on the road, 
And, folding on his bosom broad 

His arms, said, " Speak — I hear." 



The Deep Voice said, " O wild of will, 
Furious thy purpose to fulfil — 
Heart-sear'd and unrepentant still, 
How long, O Harold, shall thy tread 
Disturb the slumbers of the dead? 
Each step in thy wild way thou makest, 
The ashes of the dead thou wakest ; 
And shout in triumph o'er thy path 
The fiends of bloodshed and of wrath. 
In this thine hour, yet turn and hear ! 
For life is brief and judgment near." 

IX. 

Then ceased The Voice, — The Dane re- 
plied 
In tones where awe and inborn pride 
For mastery strove, — " In vain ye chide 
The wolf for ravaging the flock, 
Or with its hardness taunt the rock, — 
I am as they— my Danish strain 
Sends streams of fire through every vein. 
Amid thy realms of goule and ghost, 
Say, is the fame of Eric lost, 
Or Witikind's the Waster, known 
Where fame or spoil was to be won ; 
Whose galleys ne'er bore off a shore 

They left not black with flame? — 
He was my sire, — and, sprung of him, 
That rover merciless and grim, 

Can I be soft and tame? 
Part hence, and with my crimes no more 

upbraid me, 
I am that Waster's son, and am but what 

he made me." 

x. 
The Phantom groan'd; — the mountain 

shook around, 
The fawn and wild doe started at the sound, 
The gorse and fern did wildly round them 

wave, 
As if some sudden storm the impulse gave. 
"All thou hast said is truth — Yet on the 

head 
Of that bad sire let not the charge be laid, 
That he, like thee, with unrelenting pace, 
From grave to cradle ran the evil race : — 



Relentless in his avarice and ire, 
Churches and towns he gave to sword and 

fire; 
Shed blood like water, wasted every land, 
Like the destroying angel's burning brand ; 
Fulfill'd whate'er of ill might be invented, 
Yes — all these things he did — he did, but 

he REPENTED ! 

Perchance it is part of his punishment still, 
That his offspring pursues his example of 

ill. 
But thou, when thy tempest of wrath shall 

next shake thee, 
Gird thy loins for resistance, my son, and 

awake thee ; 
If thou yield'st to thy fury, how tempted 

soever, 
The gate of repentance shall ope for thee 

never ! " 

XI. 

"He is gone," said Lord Harold, and 

gazed as he spoke ; 
"There is nought on the path but the shade 

of the oak. 
He is gone, whose strange presence my 

feeling oppress'd, 
Like the night-hag that sits on the slum- 

berer's breast. 
My heart beats as thick as a fugitive's tread, 
And cold dews drop from my brow and 

my head. — 
Ho ! Gunnar, the flasket yon almoner gave; 
He said that three drops would recall from 

the grave. 
For the first time Count Harold owns 

leech -craft has power, 
Or, his courage to aid, lacks the juice of 

a flower!" 
The page gave the flasket, which Wal- 

wayn had fill'd 
With the juice of wild roots that his art 

had distill'd— 
So baneful their influence on all that had 

breath, 
One drop had been frenzy, and two had 

been death. 
Harold took it, but drank not ; for jubilee 

shrill, 
And music and clamour were heard on the 

hill, 
And down the steep pathway, o'er "stock 

and o'er stone, 
The train of a bridal came bli thesomely on ; 
There was song, there was pipe, there was 

timbrel, and still 
The burden was, "Joy to the fairMetelilll" 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



331 



Harold might see from his high stance, 
Himself unseen, that train advance 

With mirth and melody; — 
On horse and foot a mingled throng, 
Measuring their steps to bridal song 

And bridal minstrelsy; 
And ever when the blithesome rout 
Lent to the song their choral shout, 
Redoubling echoes roll'd about, 
While echoing cave and cliff sent out 

The answering symphony 
Of all those mimic notes which dwell 
In hollow rock and sounding dell. 

xrn. 
Joy shook his torch above the band, 
By many a various passion fann'd ; — 
As elemental sparks can feed 
On essence pure and coarsest weed, 
Gentle, or stormy, or refined, 
Joy takes the colours of the mind. 
"Lightsome and pure, but unrepress'd, 
He fired the bridegroom's gallant breast ; 
More feebly strove with maiden fear, 
Yet still joy glimmer'd through the tear 
On the bride's blushing cheek, that shows 
Like dewdrop on the budding rose ; 
While Wulfstane's gloomy smile declared 
The glee that selfish avarice shared, 
And pleased revenge and malice high 
Joy's semblance took in Jutta's eye. 
On dangerous adventure sped, 
The witch deem'd Harold with the dead, 
For thus that morn her Demon said : 
"If, ere the set of sun, be tied 
The knot 'twixt bridegroom and his bride, 
The Dane shall have no power of ill 
O'er William and o'er Metelih." 
And the pleased witch made answer, 

' ' Then 
Must Harold have pass'd from the paths of 

men ! 
Evil repose may his spirit have, — 
May hemlock and mandrake find root in 

his grave, — 
May his death-sleep be dogged by dreams 

of dismay, 
And his waking be worse at the answering 

day." 

XIV. 

Such was their various mood of glee 
Blent in one shout of ecstasy. 
But still when Joy is brimming highest, 
Of Sorrow and Misfortune nighest, 
Of Terror with her ague cheek, 
And lurking Danger, sages speak ; — 



These haunt each path, but chief they 

lay 
Their snares beside the primrose way. — 
Thus found that bridal band their path 
Beset by Harold in his wrath. 
Trembling beneath his maddening mood, 
High on a rock the giant stood ; 
His shout was like the doom of death 
Spoke o'er their heads that pass'd beneath. 
His destined victims might not spy 
The reddening terrors of his eye, — 
The frown of rage that writhed his face,— 
The lip that foam'd like boar's in chase ; 
But all could see — and, seeing, all 
Bore back to shun the threaten'd fall — 
The fragment which their giant foe 
Rent from the cliff and heaved to throw. 



Backward they bore ; — yet are there two 

For battle who prepare : 
No pause of dread Lord William knew' 

Ere his good blade was bare ; 
And Wulfstane bent his fatal yew, 
But ere the silken cord he drew, 
As hurl'd from Hecla's thunder, flew 

That ruin through the air ! 
Full on the outlaw's front it came, 
And all that late had human name, 
And human face, and human frame, 
That lived, and moved, and had free will 
To choose the path of good or ill, 

Is to its reckoning gone ; 
And nought of Wulfstane rests behind, 

Save that beneath that stone, 
Half-buried in the dinted clay, 
A red and shapeless mass there lay 

Of mingled flesh and bone ! 



As from the bosom of the sky 

The eagle darts amain, 
Three bounds from yonder summit high 

Placed Harold on the plain. 
As the scared wild-fowl scream and fly, 

So fled the bridal train ; 
As 'gainst the eagle's peerless might 
The noble falcon dares the fight, 

But dares the fight in vain, 
So fought the bridegroom ; from his hand 
The Dane's rude mace has struck his brand, 
Its glittering fragments strew the sand, 

Its lord lies on the plain. 
Now, Heaven ! take noble William's part, 
And melt that yet unmelted heart, 
Or, ere his bridal hour depart, 

The hapless bridegroom's slain ! 



«*> 



332 



scorrs poetical works. 



Count Harold's frenzied rage is high, 

There is a death-fire in his eye, 

Deep furrows on his brow are trench' d, 

His teeth are set, his hand is clench'd, 

The foam upon his lip is white, 

His deadly arm is up to smite! 

But as the mace aloft he swung, 

To stop the blow young Gunnar sprung, 

Around his master's knees he clung, 

And cried, " In mercy spare ! 
O, think upon the words of fear 
Spoke by that visionary Seer, 
The crisis he foretold is here, — 

Grant mercy, — or despair !" 
This word suspended Harold's mood, 
Yet still with arm upraised he stood, 
And visage like the headsman's rude 

That pauses for the sign. 
" O mark thee with the blessed rood," 
The page implored ; ' ' speak word of good, 
Resist the fiend, or be subdued !" 

He sign'd the cross divine — 
Instant his eye hath human light, 
Less red, less keen, less fiercely bright ; 
His brow relax'd the obdurate frown, 
The fatal mace sinks gently down, 

He turns and strides away ; 
Yet oft, like revellers who leave 
Unfinish'd feast, looks back to grieve, 
As if repenting the reprieve 

He granted to his prey. 
Yet still of forbearance one sign hath he 

given, 
And fierce Witikind's son made one step 
towards heaven. 

XVIII. 

But though his dreaded footsteps part, 
Death is behind and shakes his dart ; 
Lord William on the plain is lying, 
Beside him Metelill seems dying! — 
Bring odours— essences in haste— 
And lo ! a flasket richly chased, — 
But Jutta the elixir proves 
Ere pouring it for those she loves. — 
Then Walwayn's potion was not wasted, 
For when three drops the hag had tasted, 

So dismal was her yell, 
Each bird of evil omen woke, 
The raven gave his fatal croak, 
And shriek'd the night-crow from the oak, 
The screech-owl from the thicket broke, 

And flutter'd down the dell ! 
So fearful was the sound and stern, 
The slumbers of the full-gorged erne 



Were startled, and from furze and fern 

Of forest and of fell, 
The fox and famish'd wolf replied, 
(For wolves then prowl'd the Cheviot side.) 
From mountain head to mountain head 
The unhallow'd sounds around were sped ; 
But when their latest echo fled, 
The sorceress on the ground lay dead. 

XIX. 

Such was the scene of blood and woes, 
With which the bridal morn arose 

Of William and of Metelill ; 
But oft, when dawning 'gins to spread, 
The summer morn peeps dim and red , 

Above the eastern hill, 
Ere, bright and fair, upon his road 
The King of Splendour walks abroad ; 
So when this cloud had pass'd away, 
Bright was the noontide of their day, 
And all serene its setting ray. 



CANTO SIXTH. 
I. 

Well do I hope that this my minstrel 

tale 
Will tempt no traveller from southern 

fields, 
Whether in tilbury, barouche, or mail, 
To view the Castle of these Seven Proud 

Shields. 
Small confirmation its condition yields 
To Meneville's high lay, — No towers 

are seen 
On the wild heath, but those that Fancy 

builds, 
And, save a fosse that tracks the moor 

with green, 
Is nought remains to tell of what may 

there have been. 

And yet grave authors, with the no 

small waste 
Of their grave time, have dignified the 

spot 
By theories, to prove the fortress placed 
By Roman bands, to curb the invading 

Scot. 
Hutchinson, Horsley, Camden, I might 

quote, 
But rather choose the theory less civil 
Of boors, who, origin of things forgot, 
Refer still to the origin of evil, 
And for their master- mason choose that 

master-fiend the Devil. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLES§. 



333 



n. 
Therefore, I say, it was on fiend-built 

towers 
That stout Count Harold bent his 

wondering gaze, 
When evening dew was on the heather 

flowers, 
And the last sunbeams made the moun- 
tain blaze, 
And tinged the battlements of other days 
With the bright level light ere sinking 

down. — 
Illumined thus, the Dauntless Dane 

surveys 
The Seven Proud Shields that o'er the 

portal frown 
And on their blazons traced high marks of 

old renown. 

A wolf North Wales had on his armour- 
coat, 
And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant 

stag ; . 
Strath-Clwyde's strange emblem was a 

stranded boat, 
Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag ; 
A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's 

brag; 
A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail 

worn ; 
Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag 
Surmounted by a cross — such signs 

were-borne 
Upon these antique shields, all wasted now 

and worn. 

in. 
These scann'd, Count Harold sought 

the castle-door, 
Whose ponderous bolts were rusted to 

decay ; 
Yet till that hour adventurous knight 

forbore 
The unobstructed passage to essay. 
More strong than armed warders in 

array, 
And obstacle more sure than bolt or bar, 
State in the portal Terror and Dismay, 
While Superstition, who forbade to war 
With foes of other mould than mortal 

clay, 
Cast spells across the gate, and barr'd the 

onward way. 

Vain now these spells; for soon with 

heavy clank 
The feebly -fasten'd gate was inward 

push'd, 



And, as it oped, through that embla- 

zon'd rank 
Of antique shields, the wind of evening 

rush'd 
With sound most like a groan, and then 

was hush'd. 
Is none who on such spot such sounds 

could hear 
But to his heart the blood had faster 

rush'd ; 
Yet to bold Harold's breast that throb 

was dear — 
It spoke of danger nigh, but had no touch 

of fear. 

IV. 

Yet Harold and his Page no signs have 
traced 

Within the castle, that of danger shovv'd; 

For still the halls and courts were wild 
and waste, 

As through their precincts the adven- 
turers trode. 

The seven huge towers rose' stately, tall, 
and broad, 

Each tower presenting to their scrutiny 

A hall in which a king might make abode, 

And fast beside, garnish'd both proud 
and high, 
Was placed a bower for rest in which a 
king might lie. 

As if a bridal there of late had been, 
Deck'd stood the table in each gorgeous 

hall ; 
And yet it was two hundred years, I 

ween, 
Since date of that unhallow'd festival. 
Flagons, and ewers, and standing cups, 

were all 
Of tarnish'd gold, or silver nothing clear, 
With throne begilt, and canopy of pall, 
And tapestry clothed the walls with 

fragments sear — 
Frail as the spider's mesh did that rich 

woof appear. 

v. 
In every bower, as round a hearse, was 

hung 
A dusky crimson curtain o'er the bed, 
And on each couch in ghastly wise were 

flung 
The wasted relics of a monarch dead ; 
Barbaric ornaments around were spread, 
Vests twined with gold, and chains of 

precious stone, 
And golden circlets, meet for monarch's 

head: 



334 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



While grinn'd, as if in scorn amongst 

them thrown, 
The wearer's ileshless skull, alike with 

dust bestrown. 
For these were they who, drunken with 

delight, 
On pleasure's opiate pillow laid their 

head, 
For whom the bride's shy footsteps, slow 

and light, 
Was changed ere morning to the mur- 
derer's tread. 
For human bliss and woe in the frail 

thread 
Of human life are all so closely twined, 
That till the shears of Fate the texture 

shred, 
The close succession cannot be disjoin'd, 
Nor dare we, from one hour, judge that 

which comes behind. 

vr. 
But where the work of vengeance had 

been done, 
In that seventh chamber, was a sterner 

sight ; 
There of the witch-brides lay each 

skeleton, 
Still in the posture as to death when 

dight, 
For this lay prone, by one blow slain 

outright ; 
And that, as one who struggled long in 

dying ; 
One bony hand held knife, as if to 

smite ; 
One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy 

crying ; 
One lay across the door, as kill'd in act of 

flying. 
The stern Dane smiled this charnel- 
house to see, — 
For his chafed thought return'd to 

Metelill ;— 
And "Well," he said, "hath woman's 

perfidy, 
Empty as air, as water volatile, 
Been here avenged. — The origin of ill 
Through woman rose, the Christian 

doctrine saith : 
Nor deem I, Gunnar, that thy minstrel 

skill 
Can show example where a woman's 

breath 
Hath made a true-love vow, and, tempted, 

kept her faith." 



vir. 
The minstrel-boy half smiled, half sigh'd, 
And his half-filling eyes he dried, 
And said, "The theme I should but wrong, 
Unless it were my dying song, 
(Our Scalds have said, in dying hour 
The northern harp has treble power,) 
Else could I tell of woman's faith, . 
Defying danger, scorn, and death. 
Firm was that faith, — as diamond stone 
Pure and unflaw'd, — her love unknown, 
And unrequited ; — firm and pure, 
Her stainless faith could all endure ; 
From clime to clime, — from place to place, 
Through want, and danger, and disgrace, 
A wanderer's wayward steps could trace. — 
All this she did, and guerdon none 
Required, save that her burial-stone 
Should make at length the secret known, 
' Thus hath a faithful woman done.' — 
Not in each breast such truth is laid, 
But Eivir was a Danish maid." — 

VIII. 
"Thou art a wild enthusiast," said 
Count Harold, ' ' for thy Danish maid ; 
And yet, young Gunnar, I will own 
Hers were a faith to rest upon. 
But Eivir sleeps beneath her stone, 
And all resembling her are gone. 
What maid e'er show'd such constancy 
In plighted faith, like thine to me? 
But couch thee, boy ; the darksome shade 
Falls thickly round, nor be dismay'd 

Because the dead are by. 
They were as we ; our little day 
O'erspent, and we shall be as they. 
Yet near me, Gunnar, be thou laid, 
Thy couch upon my mantle made, 
That thou mayst think, should fear invade, 

Thy master slumbers nigh." 
Thus couch'd they in that dread abode, 
Until the beams of dawning glow'd. 

IX. 

An alter'd man Lord Harold rose, 
When he beheld that dawn unclose— 

There's trouble in his eyes, 
And traces on his brow and cheek 
Of mingled awe and wonder speak : 

"My page," he said, "arise; — 
Leave we this place, my page." — No more 
He utter'd till the castle door 
They cross'd— but there he paused and 

said, 
" My wildness hath awaked the dead — 

Disturb'd the sacred tomb ! 



They met like friends who part in pain, 
And meet in doubtful hope again. 

Lord of the Isles. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



335 



Methought this night I stood on high, 
Where Hecla roars in middle sky, 
And in her cavcrn'd gulfs could spy 

The central place of doom ; 
And there before my mortal eye 
Souls of the dead came flitting by, 
Whom fiends, with many a fiendish cry, 

Bore to that evil den ! 
My eyes grew dizzy, and my brain 
Was wilder' d, as the elvish train, 
With shriek and howl, dragg'd on amain 

Those who had late been men. 
x. 
1 ' With haggard eyes and streaming hair, 
Jutta the Sorceress was there, 
And there pass'd Wulfstane, lately slain, 
All crush'd and foul with bloody stain. — 
More had I seen, but that uprose 
A whirlwind wild, and swept the snows; 
And with such sound as when at need 
A champion spurs his horse to speed, 
Three armed knights rush on, who lead 
Caparison'd a sable steed. 
Sable their harness, and there came 
Through their closed visors sparks of 

flame. 
The first proclaim'd, in sounds of fear, 
* Harold the Dauntless, welcome here !' 
The next cried, 'Jubilee ! we've won 
Count Witikind the Waster's son ! ' 
And the third rider sternly spoke, 
' Mount, in the name of Zernebock ! — 
From us, O Harold, were thy powers, — 
Thy strength, thy dauntlessness, are ours ; 

Nor think, a vassal thou of hell, 
With hell can strive.' The fiend spoke 

true ! 
My inmost soul the summons knew, 

As captives know the knell 
That says the headsman's sword is bare, 
And, with an accent of despair, 

Commands them quit their cell. 
1 felt resistance was in vain, 
My foot had that fell stirrup ta'en, 
My hand was on the fatal mane, 

When to my rescue sped 
That Palmer's visionary form, 
And — like the passing of a storm — 

The demons yell'd and fled ! 

XI. 

" His sable cowl flung back, reveal'd 
The features it before conceal'd ; 

And, Gunnar, I could find 
In him whose counsels strove to stay 
So oft my course on wilful way, 

My father Witikind I 



Doom'd for his sins, and doom'd for mine, 
A wanderer upon earth to pine 
Until his son shall turn to grace, 
And smooth for him a resting-place. — 
Gunnar, he must not haunt in vain 
This world of wretchedness and pain: 
I'll tame my wilful heart to live 
In peace— to pity and forgive — 
And thou, for so the Vision said, 
Must in thy Lord's repentance aid. 
Thy mother was a prophetess, 
He said, who by her skill could guess 
How close the fatal textures join 
Which knit thy thread of life with mine ; 
Then, dark, he hinted of disguise 
She framed to cheat too curious eyes, 
That not a moment might divide 
Thy fated footsteps from my side. 
Methought while thus my sire did teach, 
I caught the meaning of his speech, 
Yet seems its purport doubtful now." 
His hand then sought his thoughtful 

brow, 
Then first he mark'd that in the tower 
His glove was left at waking hour, 

XII. 

Trembling at first, and deadly pale, 
Had Gunnar heard the vision'd tale ; 
But when he learn'd the dubious close, 
He blush'd like any opening rose, 
And, glad to hide his tell-tale cheek, 
Hied back that glove of mail to seek ; 
When soon a shriek of deadly dread 
Summon'd his master to his aid. 

XIII. 

What sees Count Harold in that bower, 

So late his resting-place ? — 
The semblance of the Evil Power, 

Adored by all his race ! 
Odin in living form stood tnere, 
His cloak the spoils of Polar bear ; 
For plumy crest a meteor shed 
Its gloomy radiance o'er his head. 
Yet veil'd its haggard majesty 
To the wild lightnings of his eye. 
Such height was his, as when in stone 
O'er Upsal's giant altar shown : 

So flow'd his hoary beard ; 
Such was his lance of mountain-pine, 
So did his sevenfold buckler shine ; — 

But when his voice he rear'd, 
Deep, without harshness, slow and strong, 
The powerful accents roll'd along, 
And, while he spoke, his hand was laid 
On Captive Gunnar' s shrinking head. 



336 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Harold," he said, " what rage is thine, 
To quit the worship of thy line, 

To leave thy Warrior-God ? — 
With me is glory or disgrace, 
Mine is the onset and the chase, 
Embattled hosts before my face 

Are wither'd by a nod. 
Wilt thou then forfeit that high seat 
Deserved by many a dauntless feat, 
Among the heroes of thy line, 
Eric and fiery Thorarine ? — 
Thou wilt not. Only I can give 
The joys for which the valiant live, 
Victory and vengeance— only I 
Can give the joys for which they die, 
The immortal tilt — the banquet full, 
The brimming draught from foeman's 

skull. 
Mine art thou, witness this thy glove, 
The faithful pledge of vassal's love." — 

xv. 
" Tempter," said Harold, firm of heart, 
1 ' I charge thee, hence ! whate'er thou art, 
I do defy thee — and resist 
The kindling frenzy of my breast, 
Waked by thy words ; and of my mail, 
Nor glove, nor buckler, splent, nor nail, 
Shall rest with thee — that youth release, 
And God, or Demon', part in peace." — 
"Eivir," the Shape replied, " is mine, 
Mark'd in the birth-hour with my sign. 
Think'st thou that priest with drops of 

spray 
Could wash that blood-red mark away ? 
Or that a borrow' d sex and name 
Can abrogate a Godhead's claim? " 
Thrill 'd this strange speech through 

Harold's brain, 
He clench'd his teeth in high disdain, 
For not his new-born faith subdued 
Some tokens of his ancient mood. — 
" Now, by the hope so lately given 
Of better trust and purer heaven, 
I will assail thee, fiend! " — Then rose 
His mace, and with a storm of blows 
The mortal and the Demon close. 

XVI. 

Smoke roll'd above, fire fiash'd around, 
Darken'd the sky and shook the ground ; 

But not the artillery of hell, 
The bickering lightning, nor the rock 
Of turrets to the earthquake's shock, 

Could Harold's courage quell. 
Sternly the Dane his purpose kept 
And blows on blows resistless heap'd, 



Till quail'd that Demon Form, 
And — for his power to hurt or kill 
Was bounded by a higher will — 

Evanish'd in the storm. 
Nor paused the Champion of the North, 
But raised, and bore his Eivir forth, 
From that wild scene of fiendish strife, 
To light, to liberty, and fife ! 

XVII. 

He placed her on a bank of moss, 

A silver runnel bubbled by, 
And new-born thoughts his soul engross, 
And tremors yet unknown across 

His stubborn sinews fly, 
The while with timid hand the dew 
Upon her brow and neck he threw, 
And mark'd how life with rosy hue 
On her pale cheek revived anew, 

And glimmer' d in her eye. 
Inly he said, " That silken tress, — " 
What blindness mine that could not guess ! 
Or how could page's rugged dress 

That bosom's pride belie? 
O, dull of heart, through wild and wave 
In search of blood and death to rave, 

With such a partner nigh ! " 

XVIII. 
Then in a mirror'd pool he peer'd, 
Blamed his rough locks and shaggy beard, 
The stains of recent conflict clear'd, — 

And thus the Champion proved, 
That he fears now who never fear'd, 

And loves who never loved. 
And Eivir — life is on her cheek, 
And yet she will not move or speak, 

Nor will her eyelid fully ope ; 
Perchance it loves, that half-shut eye, 
Through its long fringe, reserved and shy, 
Affection's opening dawn to spy ; 
And the deep blush, which bids its dye 
O'er cheek, and brow, and bosom fly, 

Speaks shame-facedness and hope. 

XIX. 

But vainly seems the Dane to seek 
For terms his new-born love to speak, — 
For words, save those of wrath and wrong, 
Till now were strangers to his tongue ; 
So, when he raised the blushing maid, 
In blunt and honest terms he said, 
('Twere well that maids, when lovers woo, 
Heard none more soft, were all as true,) 
" Eivir ! since thou for many a day 
Hast follow'd Harold's wayward way, 
It is but meet that in the line 
Of after-life I follow thine. 



HAROLD THE DAUNTLESS. 



337 



To-morrow is Saint Cuthbert's tide, 
And we will grace his altar's side, 
A Christian knight and Christian bride ; 
And of Witikind's son shall the marvel be 

said, 
That on the same morn he was christen'd 

and wed." 

CONCLUSION. 

And now, Ennui, what ails thee, weary 

maid? 
And why these listless looks of yawning 

sorrow ? 



No need to turn the page, as if 'twere 
lead, 

Or fling aside the volume till to-mor- 
row.— 

Be cheer'd— 'tis ended— and I will not 
borrow, 

To try thy patience more, one anecdote 

From Bartholine, or Perinskiold, or Snorro. 

Then pardon thou thy minstrel, who hath 
wrote 

A Tale six cantos long, yet scorn'd to add 
a note. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY OF THE 
SCOTTISH BORDER. 



imitations oi ilu Jttuient |3allab, 



THOMAS THE RHYMER. 



IN THREE PARTS. 



PART FIRST.— ANCIENT. 

Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Ercildoune, known by the appel- 
lation of The Rhymer. Uniting, or supposing to unite, in his person the powers of poetical 
composition and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is re- 
garded with veneration by his countrymen. To give anything like a certain history of this re- 
markable man would be indeed difficult ; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the 
particulars here brought together. 

It is agreed on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birthplace, of this ancient bard 
was Ercildoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. 
The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition 
bears, that his surname was Lermont, or Learmont ; and that the appellation of TJie Rhymer 
was conferred on him inconsequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, 
6ome doubt upon the subject. 

We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being the 
latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther back than 
Mr. Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in 1300. — [List 0/ Scottish Poets.) 

It cannot be doubted that Thomas of Ercildoune was a remarkable and important person in 
his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet and as a 
poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it 
was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. 
If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an 
inspired nun of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant 
proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly 
suppose them to have been emitted by himself. 

22 



33S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



L The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried oft", at an early age, to the Fairy Land, 
where ho acquired all the knowledge which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years 
residence, lie was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and astonish his countrymen by 
his prophetic powers : still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when she 
should intimate her pleasure. Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends 
in the Tower of Ereildoune, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonish- 
ment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, 
parading the street of the village. The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed 
the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to the 

fopular belief, he still " drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. 
D the mean while, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The Eildon Tree, from 
beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists ; but the spot is 
marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighbouring rivulet takes the name of 
the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook) from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. 

It seemed to the Editor unpardonable to dismiss a person so important in Border traditions 
as the Rhymer, without some further notice than a simple commentary upon the following 
ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady residing not far from Ereildoune, cor- 
rected and enlarged by one in Mrs. Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, as might be 
expected, is far from minute as to local description. To this old tale the Editor has ventured 
to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of cento, from the printed prophecies vulgarly 
ascribed to the Rhymer ; and a Third Part, entirely modern, founded upon the tradition of his 
having returned with the hart and hind to the Land of Faery. To make his peace with the 
more severe antiquaries, the Editor has prefixed to the Second Part some remarks on Lear- 
mont's prophecies. 



True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank ; * 

A ferlief he spied wi' his ee ; 
And there he saw a ladye bright, 

Come riding down by the Eildon Tfee. 

Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, 
Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; 

At ilka J tett of her horse's mane, 
Hung fifty siller bells and nine. 

True Thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, 
And louted § low down to his knee, 

' ' All hail, thou mighty Queen of Heaven ! 
For thy peer on earth I never did see." — 

" O no, O no, Thomas," she said, 
" That name does not belang to me ; 

I am but the Queen of fair Elfiand, 
That am hither come to visit thee. 

"Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; 

" Harp and carp along wi' me; , 
And if ye dare to kiss my lips, 

Sure of your bodie I will be." — 

' ' Betide me weal, betide me woe, 
That weird|| shall never daunton me."— 

Syne he has kiss'd her rosy lips, 
All underneath the Eildon Tree. 

" Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said ; 

' ' True Thomas, ye maun go wi' me ; 
And ye maun serve me seven years, 

Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." 



* A spot afterwards included in the domain 
of Abbotsford. t Wonder. \ Each. 

§ Bowed. H Destiny shall not alarm me. 



She mounted on her milk-white steed ! 

She's ta'en true Thomas up behind: 
And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, 

The steed flew swifter than the wind. 

O they rade on, and farther on ; 

The steed gaed swifter than the wind ; 
Until they reach'd a desert wide, 

And living land was left hehind. 

"Light down, light down, now, true 
Thomas, 

And lean your head upon my knee ; 
Abide and rest a little space, 

And I will shew you ferlies^T three. 

" O see ye not yon narrow road, 
So thick beset with thorns and briers? 

That is the path of righteousness, 
Though after it but few enquires. 

"And see ye not that braid braid road, 
That lies across that lily leven ? 

That is the path of wickedness, 
Though some call it the road to heaven. 

"And see not ye that bonny road, 
That winds about the fernie brae? 

That is the road to fair Elfiand, 
Where thou and I this night maun gae. 

" But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, 
Whatever ye may hear or see ; 

For, if ye speak word in Elfiyn land, 
Ye'll ne'er get back to youraincountrie." 



fl Wonders. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTREISY. 



339 



O they rade on, and farther on, 

And they waded through rivers aboon 
the knee, 
And they saw neither sun nor moon, 

But they heard the roaring of the sea. 

It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae 
stern light, 
And they waded through red blude to 
the knee, 
For a' the blude that's shed on earth 
Rins through the springs o' that count rie. 

Syne they came on to a garden green, 
And she pu'd an apple frae a tree* — 

"Take this for thy wages, true Thomas ; 
It will give thee the tongue that can 
never lie." — 



"My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas 
said ; 

"A gudely gift ye wad gie to me ! 
I neither dought to buy nor sell, 

At fair or tryst where I may be. 

"I dought neither speak to prince or 
peer, 

Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." — 
" Now hold thy peace! " the lady said, 

" For as I say, so must it be." — 

He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, 
And a pair of shoes. of velvet green ; 

And till seven years were gane and past, 
True Thomas on earth was never 
seen. 



PART SECOND.— ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. 

The prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, have been the principal means of securing 
to him remembrance " amongst the sons of his people." The author of Sir Tristrem would 
long ago have joined, in the vale of oblivion, "Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the adventure of 
Schir Gatvain" if, by good hap, the same current of ideas respecting antiquity, which causes 
Virgil to be regarded as a magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not exalted the bard of 
Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it during his life. 
We know, at least, for certain, that a belief in his supernatural knowledge was current soon 
after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Winton, and by Henry the 
Minstrel, or Blirid Harry, as he is usually termed. None of these authors, however, give the 
words of any of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, historically, his having pre- 
dicted the events of which they speak. The earliest of the prophecies ascribed to him, which 
is now extant, is quoted by Mr. Pinkerton from a MS. It is supposed to be a response from 
Thomas of Ercildoune to a question from the heroic Countess of March, renowned for the 
defence of the Castle of Dunbar against the English, and termed, in the familiar dialect of her 
time, Black Agnes of Dunbar. This prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears very little 
resemblance to any verses published in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. 

Corspatrick (Comes Patrick) Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his 
castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I. in Scotland. As Thomas of 
Ercildoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King Alexander's death, the 
Editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are 
selected from Hart's publication, t 



When seven years were come and gane, 
The sun blink'd fair on pool and stream ; 

And Thomas lay on Huntlie Bank, 
Like one awaken'd from a dream. 

He heard the trampling of a steed, 
He saw the flash of armour flee, 

And he beheld a gallant knight 

Come riding down by the Eildon- 
tree. 



He was a stalwart knight, and strong ; 

Of giant make he 'pear'd to be : 
He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, 

Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. 

Says — " Well met, well met, true Thomas ! 

Some uncouth ferlies show to me." — 
Says — ' ' Christ thee save, Corspatrick 

brave ! 
Thrice welcume, good Dunbar, to me! 



* The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of 
the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance 
of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic 
effect. 

t Prophecies supposed to have been delivered by True Thomas, Bede, Merlin, &c, published 
"by Andro Hart, 1615.— [Edit.] 



340 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Light down, light down, Corspatrick 
brave ! 

And I will show thee curses three, 
Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane, 

And change the green to the black livery. 

"A storm shall roar this very hour, 
From Ross's hills to Solway sea." — 

" Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar, 
For the sun shines sweet on fauld and 
lee."— 

He put his hand on the Earlie's head ; 

He show'd him a rock beside the sea, 
Where a king lay stiff beneath his steed,* 

And steel-dight nobles wiped their ee. 

" The neist curse lights on Branxton hills : 
By Flodden's high and heathery side, 

Shall wave a banner red as blude, 
And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. 

"A Scottish King shall come full keen, 

The ruddy lion beareth he ; 
A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween, 

Shall make him wink and warre to see. 

'* When he is bloody, and all to bledde, 
Thus to his men he still shall say — 

' For God's sake, turn ye back again, 
And give yon southern folk a fray ! 

Why should I lose, the right is mine? 
My doom is not to die this day.'f 

"Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, 
And woe and wonder ye sail see ; 

How forty thousand spearmen stand, 
Where yon rank river meets the sea. 

" There shall the lion lose the gylte, : 
And the libbards J bear it clean away; 



At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt 
Much gentil bluid that day." — 

" Enough, enough, of curse and ban ; 

Some blessings show thou now to me, 
Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick 
said, 

" Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" — 

" The first of blessings I shall thee show, 
Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread ;§ 

Where Saxon men shall tine the bow, 
And find their arrows lack the head. 

' ' Beside that brigg, out ower that burn, 
Where the water bickereth bright and 
sheen, 

Shall many a fallen courser spurn, 
And knights shall die in battle keen. 

" Beside a headless cross of stone, 
The libbards there shall lose the gree : 

The raven shall come, the erne shall go, 
And drink the Saxon bluid sae free. 

The cross of stone they shall not know, 
So thick the corses there shall be." — 

"But tell me, now," said brave Dunbar, 
"True Thomas, tell now unto me, 

What man shall rule the isle Britain, 
Even from the north to the southern 
sea?" — 

"A French Queen shall bear the son,|| 
Shall rule all Britain to the sea ; 

He of the Brace's blood shall come, 
As near as in the ninth degree. 

"The waters worship shall his race ; 

Likewise the waves of the farthest sea ; 
For they shall ride over ocean wide, 

With hempen bridles, and horse of tree." 

PART THIRD.— MODERN. 

Thomas the Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated 
romance of Sir Tristrem. Of this once-admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, 
which is in the Advocates' Library. The Editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this 
curious work; which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, is at least 
the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account of this romance has 
already been given to the world in Mr. Ellis's Specimens of Ancient Poetry, vol. i. p. 165; iii. p. 
410 ; a work to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged ; the former, for the 
preservation of the best-selected examples of their poetical taste ; and the latter, for a history of 
the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother- 
tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, 
that so great was the reputation of the romance of Sir Tristrem, that few were thought capable 
of reciting it after the manner of the author. 



* King Alexander III., killed by a fall from 
his horse, near Kinghorn. 

t The uncertainty which long prevailed in 
Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., is 
well known. 

\ Leopards of Plantagenet. The Scottish 



banner is a lion on a field gules : the English 
banner then was the three leopards. 

§ Bannock, or Bread Burn. 

|| James VI,. son of Mary Queen of France 
and Scotland. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



341 



The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional 
account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed 
with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate 
connection with the first and second parts of the same story. 



When seven years more were come and 
gone, 

Was war through Scotland spread, 
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon * 

His beacon blazing red. 

Then all by bonny Coldingknowf 
Pitch'd palliouns^ took their room, 

And crested helms, and spears a-ro\ve, 
Glanced gaily through the broom. 

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, 

Resounds the ensenzie;§ 
They roused the deer from Caddenhead, 

To distant Torwoodlee. 

The feast was spread in Ercildoune, 
In Learmont's high and ancient hall : 

And there were knights of great renown, 
And ladies, laced in pall. 

Nor lack'd they, while they sat at dine, 

The music nor the tale, 
Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, 

Nor mantling quaighs|| of ale. 

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, 

When as the feast was done : 
(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, 

The elfin harp he won.) 

Hush'd were the throng, both limb arid 
tongue, 

And harpers for envy pale ; 
And armed lords lean'd on their swords, 

And hearken'd to the tale. 

In numbers high, the witching tale 

The prophet pour'd along ; 
No after bard might e'er avail 

Those numbers to prolong. 

Yet fragments of the lofty strain 

Float down the tide of years, 
As, buoyant on the stormy main, 

A parted wreck appears. 

He sung King Arthur's Table Round : 

The Warrior of the Lake ; 
How courteous Gawaine met the wound, 

And bled for ladies' sake. 

* Hills near Jedburgh. 
t A tower near Ercildoune. 
X Tents. 

§ Ensenzie — War-cry, or gathering word. 
|| QuaigJis — Wooden cups, composed of 
Staves hooped together. 



But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, 

The notes melodious swell ; 
Was none excell'd in Arthur's days, 

The knight of Lionelle. 

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, 

A venom' d wound he bore ; 
When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, 

Upon the Irish shore. 

No art the poison might withstand ; 

No medicine could be found, 
Till lovely Isolde's lily hand 

Had probed the rankling wound. 

With gentle hand and soothing tongue 

She bore the leech's part ; 
And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, 

He paid her with his heart. 

O fatal was the gift, I ween ! 

For, doom'd in evil tide, 
The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, 

His cowardly uncle's bride. 

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard, 

In fairy tissue wove ; 
Where lords, and knights, and ladies 
bright, 

In gay confusion strove. 

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, 
High rear'd its glittering head ; 

And Avalon's enchanted vale 
In all its wonders spread. 

Brangwain was there, and Segramore, 
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye ; 

Of that famed wizard's mighty lore, 
O who could sing but he? 

Through many a maze the winning song 

In changeful passion led, 
Till bent at length the listening throng 

O'er Tristrem's dying bed. 

His ancient wounds their scars expand, 
With agony his heart is wrung : 

O where is Isolde's lilye hand, 
And where her soothing tongue? 

She comes ! she comes !— like flash of flame 

Can lovers' footsteps fly : 
She comes ! she comes ! — she only came 

To see her Tristrem die. 

She saw him die ; her latest sigh 
Join'd in a kiss his parting breath, 



342 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The gentlest pair that Britain bare, 
United are in death. 

There paused the harp :• its lingering sound 

Died slowly on the ear ; 
The silent guests still bent around, 

For still they seem'd to hear. 

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak : 
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh ; 

But half ashamed, the rugged cheek 
Did many a gauntlet dry. 

On Leader's stream and Learmont's tower, 

The mists of evening close ; 
In camp, in castle, or in bower, 

Each warrior sought repose. 

Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, 
Dream'd o'er the woeful tale; 

When footsteps light, across the bent, 
The warrior's ears assail. 

He starts, he wakes;— "What, Richard, 
ho! 

Arise, my page, arise ! 
What venturous wight, at dead of night, 

Dare step where Douglas lies?"— 

Then forth they rush'd : by Leader's tide, 

A selcouth * sight they see — 
A hart and hind pace side by side, 

As white as snow on Fairnalie. 

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, 
They stately move and slow ; 

Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, 
Who marvel as they go. 

To Learmont's tow r er a message sped, 

As fast as page might run ; 
And Thomas started from his bed, 

And soon his clothes did on. 

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red ; 

Never a word he spake but three ; — 
"My sand is run ; my thread is spun ; 

This sign regardeth me." 



The elfin harp his neck around, 

In minstrel guise, he hung ; 
And on the wind, in doleful sound, 

Its dying accents rung. 

Then forth he went ; yet tum'd him oft 

To view his ancient hall: 
On the gray tower, in lustre soft, 

The autumn moonbeams fall ; 

And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, 
Danced shimmering in the ray; 

In deepening mass, at distance seen, 
Broad Soltra's mountains lay. 

" Farewell, my fathers' ancient tower! 

A long farewell," said he : 
"The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, 

Thou never more shalt be." 

"To Learmont's name no foot of earth 

Shall here again belong, 
And, on thy hospitable hearth, 

The hare shall leave her young. 

"Adieu! adieu!" again he cried, 

All as he turn'd him roun' — 
" Farewell to Leader's silver tide ! 

Farewell to Ercildoune ! " 

The hart and hind approach'd the place, 

As lingering yet he stood ; 
And there, before Lord Douglas* face, 
* With them he cross'd the flood. 

Lord Douglas leap'd on his berry-brown 
steed, 

And spurr'd him the Leader o'er ; 
But, though he rode with lightning speed, 

He never saw them more. 

Some said to hill, and some to glen, 
Their wondrous course had been ; 

But ne'er in haunts of living men 
Again was Thomas seen. 



GLENFINLAS ; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.f 

The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus : While two 
Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (a hut, built for the purpose of 
hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish that 
they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two 
beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the 
hunters was seduced, by the siren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut : the 

* - Wondrous. 
t Coronach— -is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



343 



other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's 
harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress 
vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the hones of his unfortunate friend, who had been 
torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from 
thence called the Glen of the Green Women. 

Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from 
Callender in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. 
This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly in- 
habited by the Macgregors. To the west of the Forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its 
romantic avenue, called the Trosachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in 
the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Tcith passes Callender 
and the Castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The Pass of Lenny is immediately 
above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a 
forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of alpine scenery. 
This ballad first appeared in the Tales of Wonder, by Lewis. 

For them the viewless forms of air obey, 
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair ; 

They know what spirit brews the stormful day, 
And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare, 

To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare.— Collins. 



"O HONE a rie' ! O hone a rie' 1* 
The pride of Albin's line is o'er, 

And fall'nGlenartney's stateliest tree; 
We ne'er snail see Lord Ronald more !" — 

O, sprung from great Macgillianore, 
The chief that never fear'd a foe, 

How matchless was thy broad claymore, 
How deadly thine unerring bow ! 

Well can the Saxon widows tell.f 

How, on the Teith's resounding shore, 
The boldest Lowland warriors fell, 

As down from Lenny's pass you bore. 
But o'er his hills, in festal day, 

How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree, 1 
While youths and maids the light strath- 
spey 

So nimbly danced with Highland glee ! 

Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, 

E'en age forgot his tresses hoar ; 
But now the loud lament we swell, 

O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! 
From distant isles a chieftain came, 

The joys of Ronald's halls to find, 
And chase with him the dark-brown game, 

That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 
'Twas Moy ; whom in Columba's isle 

The Seer's prophetic spirit found, 2 
As, with a minstrel's fire the while, 

He waked his harp's harmonious sound. 
Full many a spell to him was known, 

Which wandering spirits shrink to hear ; 



* O hone a rie'—" Alas for the chief ! " 

t The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied 

by the Highlanders to their Low -Country 

neighbours. 



And many a lay of potent tone, 
Was never meant for mortal ear. 

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, 
High converse with the dead they hold, 

And oft espy the fated shroud, 

That shall the future corpse enfold. 

O so it fell, that on a day, 

To rouse the red deer from their den, 
The Chiefs have ta'en their distant way, 

And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. 

No vassals wait their sports to aid, 
To watch their safety, deck their board ; 

Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, 
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. 

Three summer days, thro' brake and dell, 
Their whistling shafts successful flew ; 

And still, when dewy evening fell, 
The quarry to their hut they drew. 

In gray Glenfinlas' deepest nook 

The solitary cabin stood, 
Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, 

Which murmurs through that lonely 
wood. 

Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, 
When three successive days had flown ; 

And summer mist in dewy balm 

Steep'd heathy bank and mossy stone. 

The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, 
Afar her dubious radiance shed, 

Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, 
And resting on Benledi 's head. 

Now in their hut, in social guise, 
Their sylvan fare the Chiefs enjoy ; 

And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, 
As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. 



344 



scorrs poetical works. 



" What hick we here to crown our bliss, 
While thus the pulse of joy beats high? 

What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, 
Her panting breath and melting eye ? 

' ' To chase the deer of yonder shades, 
This morning left their father's pile 

The fairest of our mountain maids, 
The daughters of the proud Glengyle. 

' ' Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, 
And dropp'd the tear, and heaved the 
sigh : 

But vain the lover's wily art, 
Beneath a sister's watchful eye. 

" But thou mayst teach that guardian fair, 
While far with Mary I am flown, 

Of other hearts to cease her care, 
And find it hard to guard her own. 

' ' Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see 
The lovely Flora of Glengyle, 

Unmindful of her charge and me, 
Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. 

' ' Or, if she choose a melting tale, 
All underneath the greenwood bough, 

Will good St. Oran's rule prevail, 3 
Stern huntsman of the rigid brow!" — 

"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, 
No more on me shall rapture rise, 

Responsive to the panting breath, 
Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. 

•' E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, 
Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, 

I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, 
On me the Seer's sad spirit came. 

" The last dread curse of angry heaven, 
With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, 

To dash each glimpse of joy was given — 
The gift, the future ill to know. 

' ' The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, 
So gaily part from Oban's bay, 

My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, 
Faron the rocky Colonsay. 

' ' Thy Fergus too — thy sister's son, 
Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's 
power, 

As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, 
He left the skirts of huge Benmore. 

" Thou only saw'st their tartans * wave, 
As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, 

* Tartans — the full Highland dress, made 
of the chequered stuff so termed. 



Heard'st but the pibroch, f answering brave 
To many a target clanking round. 

" I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, 
I saw the wound his bosom bore, 

When on the serried Saxon spears 
He pour'd his clan's resistless roar. 

" And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, 
And bidst my heart awake to glee, 

And court, like thee, the wanton kiss — 
That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee ! 

"I see the death-damps chill thy brow ; 

I hear thy Warning Spirit cry ; 
The corpse-lights dance— they're gone, and 
now. . . . 

No more is given to gifted eye ! " ' 

" Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, 

Sad prophet of the evil hour ! 
Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, 

Because to-morrow's storm may lour? 
' ' Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, 

Clangillian's Chieftain ne'er shall fear ; 
His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, 

Though doom'd to stain the Saxon 
spear. 

" E'en now, to meet me in yon dell 
My Mary's buskins brush the dew." 

He spoke, nor bade the Chief farewell, 
But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. 

Within an hour return'd each hound ; 

In rush'd the rousers of the deer ; , 
They howl'd in melancholy sound, 

Then closely couch'd beside the Seer. 

No Ronald yet, though midnight came ; 

And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, 
As, bending o'er the dying flame, 

He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. 

Sudden the hounds erect their ears, 
And sudden cease their moaning howl; 

Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears 
By shivering limbs and stifled growl. 

Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, 
As softly, slowly, oped the door ; 

And shook responsive every string, 
As light a footstep press'd the floor. 

And by the watch-fire's glimmering light, 
Close by the minstrel's side was seen 

An huntress maid, in beauty bright, 
All dropping wet her robes of green. 

t Pibroch— -a piece of martial music, adapted 
to the Highland bagpipe. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



345 



All dropping wet her garments seem ; 

Chill' d was her cheek, her bosom bare, 
As, bending o'er the dying gleam, 

She wrung the moisture from her hair. 

With maiden blush, she softly said, 
" O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, 

In deep Glenfinlas' moonlight glade, 
A lovely maid in vest of green : 

" With her a Chief in Highland pride ; 

His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, 
The mountain dirk adorns his side, 

Far on the wind his tartans flow?" — 

*• And who art thou ? and who are they?" 
All ghastly gazing, Moy replied : 

" And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, 
Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?" — 

1 ' Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, 
Blue, dark, and deep, round many an 
isle, 

Our father's towers o'erhang her side, 
The castle of the bold Glengyle. 

" To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, 
Our woodland course this morn we bore, 

And haply met, while wandering here, 
The son of great Macgillianore. 

" O aid me, then, to seek the pair, 
Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; 

Alone, I dare not venture there, 

Where walks, they say, the shrieking 
ghost." — 

" Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; 

Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, 
Here will I pour my midnight prayer, 

Which still must rise when mortals 
sleep." — 

" O first, for pity's gentle sake, 
Guide a lone wanderer on her way ! 

For I must cross the haunted brake, 
And reach my father's towers ere day." — 

" First, three times tell each Ave-bead, 
And thrice a Pater-noster say ; 

Then kiss with me the holy rede ; 
So shall we safely wend our way." — 

"O shame to knighthood, strange and 
foul! 

Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, 
And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, 

Which best befits thy sullen vow. 

" Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, 
Thy heart was froze to love and joy, 

When gaily rung thy raptured lyre 
To wanton Morna's melting eye." 



Wild stared the minstrel's eyes of flame, 
And high his sable locks arose, 

And quick his colour went and came, 
As fear and rage alternate rose. 

' ' And thou ! when by the blazing oak 
I lay, to her and love resign'd, 

Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, 
Or sail'd ye on the midnight wind ? 

" Not thine a race of mortal blood, 
Nor old Glengyle's pretended line ; 

Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood — 
Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." 

He mutter'd thrice St. Oran's rhyme, 
And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer ;♦ 

Then turn'dhim to the eastern clime, 
And sternly shook his coal-black hair. 

And, bending o'er his harp, he flung 
His wildest witch-notes on the wind ; 

And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, 
As many a magic change they find. 

Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, 
Till to the roof her stature grew : 

Then, mingling with the rising storm, 
With one wild yell away she flew. 

Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear: 
The slender hut in fragments flew ; 

But not a lock of Moy's loose hair 
Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. 

Wild mingling with the howling gale, 
Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise ; 

High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, 
And die amid the northern skies. 

The voice of thunder shook the wood, 

As ceased the more than mortal yell ; 
And, spattering foul, a shower of blood 

Upon the hissing firebrands fell. 
Next dropp'd from high a mangled arm ; 

The fingers strain'd a half-drawn blade : 
And last, the life-blood streaming warm, 

Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. 

Oft o'er that head, in battling field, 
Stream'd the proud crest of high Ben 
more ; 

That arm the broad claymore could wield, 
Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. 

Woe to Moneira's sullen rills ! 

Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen ! 
There never son of Albin's hills 

Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen. 

E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet 
At noon shall shun that sheltering den, 



346 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet 
The wayward Ladies of the Glen. 

And we— behind the Chieftain's shield, 
No more shall we in safety dwell ; 

None leads the people to the field — 
And we the loud lament must swell. 

O hone a rie' ! O hone a rie' ! 

The pride of Albin's line is o'er! 
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree ; 
• We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more ! 



" Lewis's collection produced also what 
Scott justly calls his 'first serious attempts in 
verse;' and of these the earliest appears to 
have been the Glenfinlas. Here the scene is 
laid in the most favourite district of his 
favourite Perthshire Highlands ; and the 
Gaelic tradition on which it is founded was 
far more likely to draw out the secret strength 
of his genius, as well as to arrest the feelings 
of his countrymen, than any subject with 
which the stores of German diablerie could 
have supplied him."— Life of Scott, vol. ii. 
P- 25. 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 



r Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern 
boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property 
of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden [Lord Polwarth]. The tower is a high square building, sur- 
rounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended on three 
sides by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. 
The apartments, as is usual in a Border keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and 
communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or 
pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate ; the distance between 
them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smayl- 
ho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags by which it is sur- 
rounded, one, more eminent, is called the Watch/old, and is said to have been the station of a 
beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brother- 
stone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower. 

This ballad was first printed in Mr. Lewis's Tales of Wonder. It is here published with 
some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor ; which 
seemed proper in a work upon Border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon 
a well-known Irish tradition. This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene £>f the 
Editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border tale. 



The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, 

He spurr'd his courser on, 
Without stop or stay down the rocky way, 
i That leads to Brotherstone. 

He went not with the bold Buccleuch, 

His banner broad to rear ; 
He went not 'gainst the English yew, 

To lift the Scottish spear. 

Yst his plate-jack* was braced, and his 
•helmet was laced, 
And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore : 
At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel 
sperthe, 
Full ten pound weight and more. 

The Baron return'd in three days' space, 
1 And his looks were sad and sour ; 
And weary was his courser's pace, 
As he reach'd his rocky tower. 



* The plate-jack is coat-armour ; the vaunt- 
brace or wam-brace, armour for the body ; the 
sperthe, a battle-axe. 



He came not from where Ancram Moor * 

Ran red with English blood ; 
Where the Douglas true, and the bold 
Buccleuch, 

'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. 

Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, 

His acton pierced and tore, 
His axe and his dagger with blood im- 
brued, — 

But it was not English gore. 

He lighted at the Chapellage, 

He held him close and still ; 
And he whistled thrice for his little foot- 
page, 

His name was English Will. 

" Come thou hither, my little foot-page, 

Come hither to my knee ; 
Though thou art young and tender of age, 

I think thou art true to me. 

" Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, 
And look thou tell me true ! • • 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



347 



Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, 
What did thy lady do ? "— 

* My lady, each night, sought the lonely 
light, 
That burns on the wild Watchfold ; 
For, from height to height, the beacons 
bright 
Of the English foemen told. 

"The bittern clamour'd from the moss, 
The wind blew loud and shrill ; 

Yet the craggy pathway she did cross 
To the eiry Beacon Hill. 

"I watch'd her steps, and silent came 
Where she sat her on a stone ; — 

No watchman stood by the dreary flame, 
It burned all alone. 

"The second night I kept her in sight, 

Till to the fire she came, 
And, by Mary's might ! an Armed Knight 

Stood by the lonely flame. 

"And many a word that warlike lord 

Did speak to my lady there ; 
But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the 
blast, 

And I heard not what they were. 

"The third night there the sky was fair, 
And the mountain-blast was still, 

As again I watch'd the secret pair, 
On the lonesome Beacon Hill. 

"And I heard her name the midnight hour, 

And name this holy eve ; 
And say, ' Come this night to thy lady's 
bower ; 

Ask no bold Baron's leave. 

" ' He lifts his spear with the bold Buc- 
cleuch ; 

His lady is all alone ; 
The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, 

On the eve of good St. John.' — 

" ' I cannot come ; I must not come : 

I dare not come to thee ; 
On the eve of St. John I must wander alone : 

In thy bower I may not be. ' — 

" ' Now, out on thee, fainthearted knight ! 

Thou shouldst not say me nay ; 
For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 

Is worth the whole summer's day. 

" ' And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the 
warder shall not sound, 
And rushes shall be strew'd on the stair ; 



So, by the black-rood stone,* and by holy 
St. John, 
I conjure thee, my love, to be there ! " — 

" 'Though the blood-hound be mute, and 
the rush beneath my foot, 
And the warder his bugle should not 
blow, 
Yet there sleepeth a priest in a chamber to 
the east, 
And my footstep he would know.' — 

" ' O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to 
the east ! 
For to Dryburghf the way he has 
ta'en ; 
And there to say mass, till three days do 
pass, 
For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' — 

"He turn'd him around, and grimly he 
frown'd ; 
Then he laugh' d right scornfully — 
' He who says the mass-rite for the soul of 
that knight, 
May as well say mass for me : 

" * At the lone midnight hour, when bad 
spirits have power, 
In thy chamber will I be.' 
With that he was gone, and my lady left 
alone, 
And no more did I see." 

Then changed, I trow, was that bold 
Baron's brow, 
From the dark to the blood-red high ; 
" Now, tell me the mien of the knight 
thou hast seen, 
For, by Mary, he shall "die! " — 

" His arms shone full bright, in the 
beacon's red light:. 
His plume it was scarlet and blue ; 
On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash 
bound, 
And his crest was a branch of the 
yew." — 

"Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot- 
page, 
Loud dost thou lie to me ! 



* The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of 
black marble, and of superior sanctity. 

t Dryburgh Abbey stands on the banks of 
the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became 
the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, 
and afterwards the seat of the Earls of 
Buchan. 



3 4 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



For that knight is cold, and low laid in the 
mould, 
All under the Eildon-tree." *— 

"Yet hear but my word, my noble lord ! 

For I heard her name his name ; 
And that lady bright she called the knight 

Sir Richard of Coldinghame."— 

The bold Baron's brow then changed, I 
trow, 
From high blood-red to pale — 
' ' The grave is deep and dark— and the 
corpse is stiff and stark — 
So I may not trust thy tale. 

"Where fair Tweed flows round holy 
Melrose, 

And Eildon slopes to the plain, 
Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, 

That gay gallant was slain. 

1 ' The varying light deceived thy sight, 
And the wild winds drown'd the name ; 

For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white^ 
monks do sing, 
For Sir Richard of Coldinghame! " 

He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the 
tower-gate, 
And he mounted the narrow stair, 
To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids 
that on her wait, 
He found his lady fair. 

That lady sat in mournful mood ; 

Look'd over hill and vale ; 
Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's 
wood, 

And all down Teviotdale. 

" Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright ! " — 
' ' Now hail, thou Baron true ! 

What news, what news, from Ancram 
fight? 
What news from the bold Buccleuch ? " — 

" The Ancram moor is red with gore, 

For many a Southron fell ; 
And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, 

To watch our beacons well." — 

The lady blush' d red, but nothing she said : 
Nor added the Baron a word : 

* Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three 
conical summits, immediately above the town 
of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a 
magnificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to 
be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered 
his prophecies. 



Then she stepp'd down the stair to her 
chamber fair, 
And so did her moody lord. 

In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron 
toss'd and turn'd, 
And oft to himself he said, — 
"The worms around him creep, and his 

bloody grave is deep 

It cannot give up the dead ! " — 

It was near the ringing of matin-bell, 
The night was well-nigh done, 

When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, 
On the eve of good St. John. 

The lady look'd through the chamber 
fair, 
By the light of a dying flame ; 

And she was aware of a knight stood there- 
Sir Richard of Coldinghame ! 

"Alas! away, away!" she cried, 
" For the holy Virgin's sake ! " — 

" Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side 
But, lady, he will not awake. 

' ' By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, 

In bloody grave have I lain ; 
The mass and the death-prayer are said 
for me, 

But, lady, they are said in vain. 

"By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair 
strand, 
Most foully slain, I fell ; 
And my restless sprite on the beacon's 
height, 
For a space is doom'd to dwell. 

1 ' At our trysting-place, for a certain space, 

I must wander to and fro : 
But I had not had power to come to thy 
bower 

Hadst thou not conjured me so." — 

Love master'd fear — her brow she cross'd; 

" How, Richard, hast thou sped? 
And art thou saved, or art thou lost ?" — 

The vision shook his head ! 

"Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; 

So bid thy lord believe : 
That lawless love is guilt above, 

This awful sign receive." 

He laid his left palm on an oaken beam ; 

His right upon her hand ; 
The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, 

For it scorch' d Uke a fiery brand. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 349 



The sable score, of fingers four, 
Remains on that board impress'd ; 

And for evermore that lady wore 
A covering on her wrist. 3 

There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, 
Ne'er looks upon the sun ; 



There is a monk in Melrose tower 
He speaketh word to none. 

That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, 3 
That monk, who speaks to none — 

That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, 
That monk the bold Baron. 



CADYOW CASTLE. 

' The ruins of Cadyow or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of 
Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its 
junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the Civil Wars, during the 
reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with 
a generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and very nearly their total ruin. 
The situation" of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and 
overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity 
of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently 
extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of 
these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference ; and the state of decay, in 
which they now appear, shows that they have witnessed the rites of the Druids. The whole 
scenery is included in the magnificent and-extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was 
long preserved in this forest the breta of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned 
their being extirpated, about forty years ago. *Their appearance was beautiful, being milk- 
white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors as 
having white manes ; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture 
with the tame breed.* 

In detailing the death of the Regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, 
it would be injustice to my readers to use other words than those of Dr. Robertson, whose ac- 
count of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. 

" Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had 
been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and 
owed his life to the Regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of 
the Regent's favourites,! who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, 
into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made 
a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed 
to be revenged of the Regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. 
His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprise. The maxims of that age justified the 
most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the Regent for some 
time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved at last to wait till his 
enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass in his way from Stirling to 
Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery,* which had a window towards the street ; 
spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard ; hung up a 
black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without ; and, after all this 
preparation, calmly expected the Regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a 
house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had 
been conveyed to the Regent, and he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved to return by 
the same gate through which he had enlared, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as 
the crowd about the gate was great, air.; he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly 
along the street ; and the throng of o^ople obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin 
time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his 
belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman who rode on his other side. His followers instantly 
endeavoured to break into the house whence the blow had come ; but they found the door 

* They were formerly kept in the park of Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham 
Castle in Northumberland. 

t This was Sir James Bellenden, Lord Justice-Clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity 
Occasioned the catastrophe in the text. — Spottiswoode. 

X The house to which this projecting gallery was attached was the property of the Archbishop 
of St. Andrews, a natural brother to the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. 
This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received 
from his clan in effecting his purpose. | 



350 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,* 
which stood ready for him at a back passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The Regent 
died the same night of his wound." — History of Scotland, book v. 

Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph ; for the ashes 
of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking; 
and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed to his 
kinsmen to justify the deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man 
left Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he 
was doubtless recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her 
ungrateful brother. De Thou has recorded that an attempt was made to engage him to assassin- 
ate Gaspar de Coligni, the famous Admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. 
But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and 
rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland 
to commit murders in France ; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither for 
price nor prayer avenge that of another man. — Thtianus, cap. 46. . 

The Regent's death happened 23rd January, 1569. It is applauded or stigmatized, by con- 
temporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Black- 
wood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, " who," he observes, 
" satisfied with a single ounce of lead, him whose sacrilegious avarice had stripped the me- 
tropolitan church of St. Andrews of its covering ; " but he ascribes it to immediate divine in- 
spiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous interference of the 
Deity. — Jebb, vol. ii. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made the ground of a 
general national reflection ; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted 
the examples of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspirator answered, "that neyther 
Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpryse without some reason or consideration to lead 
them to it; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde; the other, upon desper- 
ate mind of revenge, for a lyttle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, according to the 
vyle trayterous dysposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes." — Mukdin's State Papers, vol. 
1. p. 197. 

Addressed to the Right Honourable Lady Anne Hamilton. 



When princely Hamilton's abode 
Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, 

The song went round, the goblet flow'd, 
And revel sped the laughing hours. 

Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, 
So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, 

And echoed light the dancer's bound, 
As mirth and music cheer'd the hall. 

But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, 
And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, 

Thrill to the music of the shade, 
Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. 

Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, 
You bid me tell a minstrel tale, 

And tune my harp, of Border frame, 
On the wild banks of Evandale. 

For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, 
From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst 
turn, 

To draw oblivion's pall aside 

And mark the long-forgotten urn. 

Then, noble maid ! at thy command, 
Again the crumbled halls shall rise ; 

Lo ! as on Evan's banks we stand, 
The past returns — the present flies. 



* The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Com- 
mendator of Arbroath. 



Where, with the rock's wood-cover'd side, 
Were blended late the ruins green, 

Rise turrets in fantastic pride, 
And feudal banners flaunt between : 

Where the rude torrent's brawling course 
Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling 
sloe, 

The ashler buttress braves its force, 
And ramparts frown in battled row. 

'Tis night — the shade of keep and spire 
Obscurely dance on Evan's stream ; 

And on the wave the warder's fire 
Is chequering the moonlight beam. 

Fades slow their light ; the east is gray ; 

The weary warder leaves his tower ; 
Steeds snort, uncoupled stag-hounds bay. 

And merry hunters quit the bower. 

The drawbridge falls — they hurry out — 
Clatters each plank and swinging chain, 

As, dashing o'er, the jovial rout 

Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. 

First of his troop, the Chief rode on ; f . 
His shouting merry-men throng behind ; 



t The head of the family of Hamilton, at 
this period, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke 
of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer of 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



35* 



The steed of princely Hamilton 

Was fleeter than the mountain wind. 

From the thick copse the roebucks bound, 

The startled red-deer scuds the plain, 
For the hoarse bugle's warrior-sound 

Has roused their mountain haunts again. 
Through the huge oaks of Evandale, 

Whose limbs a thousand years have 
worn, 
What sullen roar comes down the gale, 

And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? 

Mightiest of all the beasts of chase, 
That roam in woody Caledon, 

Crashing the forest in his race, 
The Mountain Bull comes thunderingon. 

Fierce, on the hunter's quiver'd band, 
He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, 

Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the 
sand, 
And tosses high his mane of snow. 

Aim'd well, the Chieftain's lance has 
flown ; 
Struggling in blood the savage lies ; 
His roar is sunk in hollow groan — 
Sound, merry huntsmen 1 sound the 
fryse ! x 

'Tis noon — against the knotted oak 
The hunters rest the idle spear ; 

Curls through the trees the slender smoke, 
Where yeomen dight the woodland 
cheer. 

Proudly the Chieftain mark'd his clan, 
On greenwood lap all careless thrown, 

Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man 
That bore the name of Hamilton. 

" Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, 
Still wont our weal and woe to share ? 

Why comes he not our sport to grace ? 
Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" — 

Stern Claud replied, 2 with darkening face, 
(Gray Paisley's haughty lord was he,) 

"At merry feast, or buxom chase, 
No more the warrior wilt thou see. 

" Few suns have set since Woodhouselee3 
Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets 
foam, 

When to his hearths, in social glee, 
The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. 

the Scottish realm. In 1569 he was appointed 
by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in 
Scotland, under the singular title of her 
adopted father. 



"There, wan from her maternal throes, 
His Margaret, beautiful and mild, 

Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, 
And peaceful nursed her new-born child. 

" O change accursed ! past are those days ; 

False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, 
And, for the hearth's domestic bl 

Ascends destruction's volumed flame. 

"What sheeted phantom wanders wild, 
Where mountain Eske through wood- 
land flows, 

Her arms enfold a shadowy child — 
Oh! is it she, the pallid rose? 

"The wilder'd traveller sees her glide, 
And hears her feeble voice with awe — 

' Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride ' 
And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh !' " 

He ceased — and cries of rage and grief 
Burst mingling from the kindred band, 

And half arose the kindling Chief, 
And half unsheathed his Arran brand. 

But who, o'ef bush, o'er stream and rock, 
Rides headlong, with resistless speed, 

Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke 
Drives to the leap his jaded steed ; 4 

Whose cheek is pale, whose eyeballs glare, 

As one some vision'd sight that saw, 
Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair? — 

'Tis he ! 'tis he ! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. 
From gory selle,* and reeling steed, 

Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, 
And, reeking from the recent deed, 

He dash'd his carbine on the ground. 

Sternly he spoke — " 'Tis sweet to hear 
In good greenwood the bugle blown, 

But sweeter to Revenge's ear, 
To drink a tyrant's dying groan. 

" Your slaughter'd quarry proudly trode, 
At dawning morn, o'er dale and down.1 

But prouder base-born Murray rode 
Through old Linlithgow's crowded town. 

"From the wild Border's humbled side, 5 

In haughty triumph marched he, 
While Knox relax'd his bigot pride, 

And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. 
"But can stern Power, with all his vaunt, 

Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, 
The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, 

Or change the purpose of Despair ! 



* Selle— saddle. A word used by Spencen 
and other ancient authors. 



352 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



" With hackbut bent, 6 my secret stand, 
l\irk as the purposed deed, I chose, 

And roark'd, where, mingling in his band, 
Troop'd Scottish spikes and English 
bows. 

" Dark Morton,* girt with many a spear, 
Murder's foul minion, led the van ; 

And clash'd their broadswords in the rear 
The wild Macfarlane's plaided clan. i 

"Glencairn and stout Parkhead 8 were 
nigh, 

Obsequious at their Regent's rein, 
And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, 

That saw fair Mary weep in vain. 9 

" 'Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, 
Proud Murray's plumage floated high ; 

Scarce could his trampling charger move, 
So close the minions crowded nigh. 10 

" From the raised vizor's shade, his eye, 
Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, 

And his steel truncheon, waved on high, 
Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. 

' ' But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd 
A passing shade of doubt and awe ; 

Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 
' Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh ! ' 

"The death -shot parts — the charger 
springs — 

Wild rises tumult's startling roar ! 
And Murray's plumy helmet rings — 

— Rings on the ground, to rise no more. 

" What joy the raptured youth can feel, 
To hear her love the loved one tell — 

Or he, who broaches on his steel 
The wolf, by whom his infant fell ! 



"But dearer to my injured eye 
To see in dust proud Murray roll ; 

And mine was ten times trebled joy, 
To hear him groan his felon soul. 

' ' My Margaret's spectre glided near ; 

With pride her bleeding victim saw ; 
And shriek'd in his death-deafen'd ear, 

' Remember injured Bothwellhaugh !' 

1 ' Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault 1 
Spread to the wind thy banner'd tree ! f 

Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow ! — 
Murray is fall'n, and Scotland free ! " 

Vaults every warrior to his steed ; 

Loud bugles join their wild acclaim — 
" Murray is fall'n, and Scotland freed ! 

Couch, Arran ! couch thy spear of 
flame ! " 

But, see ! the minstrel vision fails — 
The glimmering spears are seen no 
more; 

The shouts of war die on the gales, 
Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. 

For the loud bugle, pealing high, 
The blackbird whistles down the vale, 

And sunk in ivied ruins he 

The banner'd towers of Evandale. 

For Chiefs, intent on bloody deed, 
And Vengeance shouting o'er the slain, 

Lo ! high-born Beauty rules the steed, 
Or graceful guides the silken rein. 

And long may Peace and Plenty own 
The maids who list the minstrel's tale; 

Nor e'er a ruder guest be known 
On the fair banks of Evandale ! 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



A FRAGMENT. 

The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago, is not a circumstance 
affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest which is often found to arise from 
ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the Editor's intention to have completed the 
tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the 
opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of friendship, is entitled 
to deference, he has preferred inserting these verses as a fragment, to his intention of entirely 
suppressing them. 

The tradition upon which the tale is founded, regards a house upon the barony of Gilmerton, 
near Lasswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally 



* Of this noted person, it is enough to say, 
that he was active in the murder of David 
Rizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley. 



t An oak, half-sawn, with the motto through, 
is an ancient cognizance of the family of Ham- 
ilton. 



CONTRIBUTIONS TO MINSTRELSY. 



353 



named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of 
yore, to a gentleman named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was 
seduced by the Abbot of Newbattle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the South Esk, 
now a seat of the Marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and 
learned also that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's 
nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of 
bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the 
stronger claims of natural affection. Choosing, therefore, a dark and windy ni^lit, when the 
objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, 
and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile 
of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates. 

The scene with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, ex- 
tracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the 
sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was 
supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural 
gifts ; for the wild scenes which they frequented, and the constant dangers which were incurred 
through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general in 
that age. 

"About the same time he [Peden] came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Allo- 
way, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a 
little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered ; when he lifted up his head, he said, 
'They are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto ;' he halted a little again, 
saying, ' This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work ! ' Then 
there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a 
witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, what 
John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to 
Galloway, he was at family worship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture read, when a 
very ill-looking man came, and sat down within the door, at the back of the Italian [partition 
of the cottage] : immediately he halted and said, ' There is some unhappy body just now come 
into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth ! ' This person went out, and 
he insisted [went on], yet he saw him neither come in nor go out." — The Life and Prophecies 
of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway, 
part ii. § 26. 

A friendly correspondent remarks, "that the incapacity of proceeding in the performance of 
a religious duty, when a contaminated person is present, is of much higher antiquity than the 
era of the Reverend Mr. Alexander Peden." — Vide Hygini Fabulas, cap. 26. "Medea 
Corintho exul, Athenas, ad Atgeiim Pandionisfilium devenit in hospitium, eigne nupsit. 

" Postea sacerdos Diana Mdeavt exagitare ccepit, regique negabat sacra caste facere 

posse, eo quod in ea civitate esset mulier venefica et scelerata; tunc exulatur." 



The Pope he was saying the high, high 



All on Saint Peter's day, 
With the power to him given, by the saints 
in heaven, 
To wash men's sins away. 

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass, 
And the people kneel' d around, 

And from each man's soul his sins did 
pass, 
As he kiss'd the holy ground. 

And all, among the crowded throng, 
Was still both limb and tongue, 

While, through vaulted roof and aisles 
aloof, 
The holy accents rung. 

At the holiest word he quiver'd for fear, 

And falter'd in the sound — 
And, when he would the chalice rear, 

He dropp'd it to the ground. 



" The breath of one of evil deed 

Pollutes our sacred day ; 
He has no portion in our creed, 

No part in what I say. 

" A being, whom no blessed word 
To ghostly peace can bring ; 

A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd, 
Recoils each holy thing. 

"Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise! 

My adjuration fear ! 
I charge thee not to stop my voice, 

Nor longer tarry here ! " 

Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd, 
In gown of sackcloth gray ; 

Far journeying from his native field, 
He first saw Rome that day. 

For forty days and nights so drear, 

I ween he had not spoke, 
And, save with bread and water clear, 

His fast he ne'er had broke. 
23 



354 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Amid the penitential flock, 

Seem'd none more bent to pray ; 

But, when the Holy Father spoke, 
He rose and went his way. 

Again unto his native land 

His weary course he drew, 
To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, 

And Pent land's mountains blue. 

His unblest feet his native seat, 
'Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; 

Through woods more fair no stream more 
sweet 
Rolls to the eastern main. 

And lords to meet the pilgrim came, 

And vassals bent the knee ; 
For all 'mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, 

Was none more famed than he. 

And boldly for his country, still, 

In battle he had stood, 
Ay, even when on the banks of Till 

Her noblest pour'd their blood. 

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet ! 

By Eske's fair streams that run, 
O'er airy steep, through copsewood deep, 

Impervious to the sun. 

There the rapt poet's step may rove, 

And yield the muse the day ; 
There Beauty, led by timid Love, 

May shun the tell-tale ray ; 

From that fair dome, where suit is paid 

By blast of bugle free, 1 
To Auchendinny's hazel glade, 2 

And haunted Woodhouselee. 

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove,3 

And Roslin's rocky glen, 4 
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, 5 

And classic Hawthornden? 6 

Yet never a path, from day to day, 
The pilgrim's footsteps range, 

Save but the solitary way 
To Burndale's ruin'd grange. 

A woeful place was that, I ween, 

As sorrow could desire ; 
For nodding to the fall was each crumbling 
wall, 

And the roof was scathed with fire. 

It fell upon a summer's eve, 

While, on Carnethy's head, 
The last faint gleams of the sun's low 
beams 

Had streak'd the gray with red ; 



And the convent bell did vespers tell, 

Newbattle's oaks among, 
And mingled with the solemn knell 

Our Ladye's evening song ; 

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, 

Came slowly down the wind, 
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, 

As his wonted path he did find. 

Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, 

Nor ever raised his eye, 
Until he came to that dreary place, 

Which did all in ruins lie. 

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, 

With many a bitter groan — 
And there was aware of a Gray Friar, 

Resting him on a stone. 

" Now, Christ thee save! " said the Gray 
Brother ; 

" Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." 
But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, 

Nor answer again made he. 

' ' O come ye from east, or come ye from 
west, 
Or bring reliques from over the sea ; 
Or come ye from the shrine of James the 
divine, 
Or St. John of Beverley ? " — 

" I come not from the shrine of St. James 

the divine, 

Nor bring reliques from over the sea; 

I bring but a curse from our father, the 

Pope, 

Which for ever will cling to me."— 

" Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so! 

But kneel thee down, to me, 
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, 

That absolved thou mayst be." — 

"And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, 

That I should shrive to thee, 
When He, to whom are given the keys of 
earth and heaven, 

Has no power to pardon me? " — 

" O I am sent from a distant clime, 

Five thousand miles away, 
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, 

Done here 'twixt night and day." 

The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, 

And thus began his saye — 
When on his neck an ice-cold hand 

Did that Gray Brother laye. 









BALLADS, TRANSLATED, OR IMITATED, FROM 




THE GERMAN &c. 




WILLIAM AND HELEN. 

1796. 






IMITATED FROM THE " LENORE " OF BURGER. 




; FROM heavy dreams fair Helen rose, 
And eyed the dawning red : 

i • ' Alas, my love, thou tarriest long ! 
O art thou false or dead ? "— 


VIIT. 

The martial band is past and gone ; 

She rends her raven hair, 
And in distraction's bitter mood 

She weeps with wild despair. 




11. 
With gallant Fred'rick's princely power 

He sought the bold Crusade ; 
But not a word from Judah's wars 

Told Helen how he sped. 


IX. 

"0 rise, my child," her mother said, 
" Nor sorrow thus in vain ; 

A perjured lover's fleeting heart 
No tears recall again." — 




in. 
With Paynim and with Saracen 
1 At length a truce was made, 
And ev'ry knight return'd to dry 
The tears his love had shed. 


X. 

' ' mother, what is gone, is gone, 
What's lost for ever lorn : 

Death, death alone can comfort me ; 
had I ne'er been born ! 




IV. 


XI. 




j Our gallant host was homeward bound 
With many a song of joy ; 
Green waved the laurel in each plume, 
The badge of victory. 


"0 break, my heart, — O break at once ! 

Drink my life-blood, Despair ! 
No joy remains on earth for me, 

For me in heaven no share." — 




V. 

And old and young, and sire and son, 
To meet them crowd the way, 

With shouts, and mirth, and melody, 
The debt of love to pay. 


XII. 

"0 enter not in judgment, Lord ! " 

The pious mother prays ; 
" Impute not guilt to -thy frail child ! 

She knows not what she says. 




VI. 


XIII. 




Full many a maid her true-love met, 

And sobb'd in his embrace, 
And flutt'ring joy in tears and smiles 
Array'd full many a face. 


' ' O say thy Pater-noster, child ! 

O turn to God and grace ! 
His will, that turn'd thy bliss to bale, 

Can change thy bale to bliss." — 




VII. 


XIV. 




Nor joy nor smile for Helen sad ; 

She sought the host in vain ; 
For none could tell her William's fate, 

If faithless, or if slain. 


" mother, mother, what is bliss ? 

mother, what is bale ? 
My William's love was heaven on earth, 

Without it earth is hell. 











356 



SCOTT S POETICAL WOKXS. 



" Why should I pray to ruthless Heaven, 
Since my loved William's slain ? 

I only pray'd for William's sake, 
And all my prayers were vain." — 



" take the sacrament, my child, 
And check these tears that flow ; 

By resignation's humble prayer, 
O hallow'd be thv woe ! " — 



" No sacrament can quench this fire, 

Or slake this scorching pain ; 
No sacrament can bid the dead 

Arise and live again. 

XVIII. 

" O break, my heart, — O break at once ! 

Be thou my god, Despair ! 
Heaven's heaviest blow has fallen on me, 

And vain each fruitless prayer." — 

XIX. 

" O enter not in judgment, Lord, 

With thy frail child of clay ! 
She knows not what her tongue has spoke ; 

Impute it not, I pray! 



" Forbear, my child, this desperate woe, 

And turn to God and grace ; 
Well can devotion's heavenly glow, 

Convert thy bale to bliss." — 

XXI. 

" O mother, mother, what is bliss? 

O mother, what is bale? 
Without my William what were heaven, 

Or with him what were hell ? " — 

XXII. 

Wild she arraigns the eternal doom, 

Upbraids each sacred power, 
Till, spent, she sought her silent room, 

All in the lonely tower. 

. XXIII. 

She beat her breast, she wrung her hands, 

Till sun and day were o'er, 
And through the glimmering lattice shone 

The twinkling of the star. 

XXIV. 

Then, crash ! the heavy drawbridge fell 
That o'er the moat was hung; 

And, clatter! clatter! on its boards 
The hoof of courser rung. 



The clank of echoing steel was heard, 

As off the rider bounded ; 
And slowly on the winding stair 

A heavy footstep sounded. 

XXVI. 

And hark ! and hark ! a knock — Tap I 
tap! 

A rustling stifled noise ; — 
Door-latch and tinkling staples ring ; — 

At length a whispering voice. 

XXVII. 

"Awake, awake, arise, my love! 

How, Helen, dost thou fare ? 
Wak'st thou, or sleep'st? laugh'st thou, 
or weep'st? 

Hast thought on me, my fair? " — 

XXVIII. 

' ' My love ! my love ! — so late by night I— 

I waked, I wept for thee : 
Much have I borne since dawn of morn ; 

Where, William, couldst thou be!" — 

XXIX. 

'* We saddle late — from Hungary 

I rode since darkness fell ; 
And to its bourne we both return 

Before the matin-bell."' — 

xxx. 

" O rest this night within my arms, 

And warm thee in their fold ! 
Chill howls through hawthorn bush the 
wind : — 

My love is deadly cold." — 

xxxr. 
"Let the wind howl through hawthorn 
bush! 
This night we must away ; 
The steed is wight, the spur is bright ; 
I cannot stay till day. 

XXXII. 

' ' Busk, busk, and boune ! * Thou mount'st 
behind 

Upon my black barb steed : 
O'er stock and stile, a hundred miles, 

We haste to bridal bed." — 

XXXIII. 

" To-night— to-night a hundred miles !— 
O dearest William, stay ! 



* Busk — to dress. Boune — to prepare one's 
self for a journey. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



357 



The bell strikes twelve — dark, dismal 
hour ! 
O wait, my love, till day ! "— 

XXXIV. 

" Look here, look here— the moon shines 
clear — 

Full fast I ween we ride ; 
Mount and away ! for ere the day 

We reach our bridal bed. 

xxxv. 
"The black barb snorts, the bridle rings ; 

Haste, busk, and boune, and seat thee ! 
The feast is made, the chamber spread, 

The bridal guests await thee." — 

xxxvr. 
Strong love prevail'd: She busks, she 
bounes, 
She mounts the barb behind, 
And round her darling William's waist 
Her lily arms she twined. 

XXXVII. 
And, hurry ! hurry ! off they rode, 

As fast as fast might be ; 
Spurn'd from the courser's thundering 
heels 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

XXXVIII. 

And on the right, and on the left, 
Ere they could snatch a view, 

Fast, fast each mountain, mead, and plain, 
And cot, and castle, flew. 

XXXIX. 

•'Sit fast — dost fear? — The moonshines 
clear — 

Fleet goes my barb— keep hold ! 
Fear'st thou?" — " O no !" she faintly said ; 

"But why so stern and cold? 

XL. 

" What yonder rings? what yonder sings? 

Why shrieks the owlet gray ? " 
" 'Tis death-bells' clang, 'tis funeral song, 

The body to the clay. 



XLI. 

and clang, 



at morrow's 



"With song 
dawn, 

Ye may inter the dead : 
To-night I ride, with my young bride, 

To deck our bridal bed. 

XLII. 

"Come with thy choir, thou coffin'd 
guest, 
To swell our nuptial song ! 



Come, priest, to bless our marriage feast ! 
Come all, come all along ! "— 

XLIII. 

Ceased clang and song; down sunk the 
bier; 

The shrouded corpse arose : 
And, hurry ! hurry ! all the train 

The thundering steed pursues. 

XLIV. 

And, forward ! forward ! on they go; 

High snorts the straining steed ; 
Thick pants the rider's labouring breath, 

As headlong on they speed. 

XLV. 

" O William, why this savage haste? 

And where thy bridal bed ? " — 
" 'Tis distant far, low, damp, and chill, 

And narrow, trustless maid." — 

XLV I. 

"No room for me?" — "Enough for 
both ;— 
Speed, speed, my barb, thy course ! " 
O'er thundering bridge, through b 
surge, 
He drove the furious horse. 

XLVII. 
Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode,* 

Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 
The scourge is wight, the spur is bright, 

The flashing pebbles flee. 

XLVIII. 

Fled past on right and left how fast 
Each forest, grove, and bower ! 

On right and left fled past how fast 
Each city, town, and tower ! 



* In the preface to the edition of "William 
and Helen," published anonymously in 1796, 
Sir Walter Scott says : — "The first two lines of 
the forty-seventh stanza, descriptive of the 
speed of the lovers, may perhaps bring to the 
recollection of many a passage extremely 
similar in a translation of " Leonora," which 
first appeared in the Monthly Magazine. In 
justice to himself, the translator thinks it his 
duty to acknowledge that his curiosity was first 
attracted to this truly romantic story by a 
gentleman, who having heard " Leonora" once 
read in manuscript, could only recollect the 
general outlines, and part of a couplet which, 
from the singularity of its structure and fre- 
quent recurrence, had remained impressed 
upon his memory. If, from despair of render- 
ing the passage so happily, the property of 
another has been invaded, the translator makes 
the only atonement now in his power by 
restoring it thus publicly to the rightful owner. 



353 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XLIX. 

" Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines 
clear, 

Dost fear to ride with me? — 
Hurrah! hurrah! the dead can ride ! " 

" O William, let them be! — 



"See there, see there! What yonder 
swings 

And creaks 'mid whistling rain?" — 
"Gibbet and steel, th' accursed wheel; 

A murderer in his chain. — 

LI. 

' ' Hollo ! thou felon, follow here : 

To bridal bed we ride ; 
And thou shalt prance a fetter dance 

Before me and my bride." — 

LII. 

And, hurry ! hurry ! clash, clash, clash ! 

The wasted form descends ; 
And fleet as wind through hazel bush 

The wild career attends. 



Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode, 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 

The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

LIV. 
How fled what moonshine faintly show'd ! 

How fled what darkness hid ! 
How fled the earth beneath their feet, 

The heaven above their head 1 

LV. 

" Dost fear? dost fear? The moon shines 
clear, 

And well the dead can ride ; 
Does faithful Helen fear for them?" — 

" O leave in peace the dead !" — 
lvi. 
• ' Barb ! Barb ! methinks I hear the cock ; 

The sand will soon be run : 
Barb ! Barb ! I smell the morning air ; 

The race is wellnigh done." — 

LVII. 

Tramp ! tramp ! along the land they rode ; 
Splash ! splash ! along the sea ; 



The scourge is red, the spur drops blood, 
The flashing pebbles flee. 

LVIII. 

" Hurrah ! hurrah ! well ride the dead ; 

The bride, the bride is come ; 
And soon we reach the bridal bed, 

For, Helen, here's my home." — 

LIX. 
Reluctant on its rusty hinge 

Revolved an iron door, 
And by the pale moon's setting beam 

Were seen a church and tower. 

LX. 

With many a shriek and cry whiz round 
The birds of midnight, scared ; 

And rustling like autumnal leaves 
Unhallow'd ghosts were heard. 

Lxr. 
O'er many a tomb and tombstone pale 

He spurr'd the fiery horse, 
Till sudden at an open grave 

He check'd the wondrous course. 

lxii. 
The falling gauntlet quits the rein, 

Down drops the casque of steel, 
The cuirass leaves his shrinking side, 

The spur his gory heel. 

LXIII. 

The eyes desert the naked skull, 
The mould'ring flesh the bone, 

Till Helen's lily arms entwine 
A ghastly skeleton. 

LXIV. 

The furious barb snorts fire and foam, 

And, with a fearful bound, 
Dissolves at once in empty air, 

And leaves her on the ground. 

LXV. 

Half seen by fits, by fits half heard, 

Pale spectres flit along, 
Wheel round the maid in dismal dance, 

And howl the funeral song : 

LXVI. 

' ' E'en when the heart's with anguish cleft, 

Revere the doom of Heaven. 
Her soul is from her body reft ; 

Her spirit be forgiven ! " 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



359 



THE WILD HUNTSMAN * 

[1796.] 

' This is a translation, or rather an imitation, of the Wilde Jiiger of the German poet Burger. 
The tradition upon which it is founded bears, that formerly a Wildgrave, or keeper of a royal 
forest, named Falkenburg, was so much addicted to the pleasures of the chase, and otherwise 
so extremely profligate and cruel, that he not only followed this unhallowed amusement on the 
Sabbath, and other days consecrated to religious duty, but accompanied it with the most un- 
heard-of oppression upon the poor peasants who were under his vassalage. When this second 
Nimrod died, the people adopted a superstition, founded probably on the many various uncouth 
sounds heard in the depth of a German forest, during the silence of the night. They conceived they 
still heard the cry of the Wildgrave's hounds ; and the well-known cheer of the deceased hunter, 
the sounds of his horse's feet, and the rustling of the branches before the game, the pack, and 
the sportsmen, are also distinctly discriminated ; but the phantoms are rarely, if ever, visible. 
Once, as a benighted Chasseur heard this infernal chase pass by hiin, at the sound of the halloo, 
with which the Spectre Huntsman cheered his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, "Glitch 
zu Falkenburg!" [Good sport to ye, Falkenburg !] "Dost thou wish me good sport?" answered 
a hoarse voice ; " thou shalt share the game ; " and there was thrown at him what seemed to be 
a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring Chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and 
never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told 
with some variations, is universally believed all over Germany. 

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aerial hunter, who infested the forest of 
Fontainebleau. 



The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, 
To horse, to horse ! halloo, halloo ! 

His fiery courser snuffs the morn, 
And thronging serfs their lord pursue. 

The eager pack, from couples freed, 
Dash through the brush, the brier, the 
brake ; 
While answering hound,' and horn, and 
steed, 
The mountain echoes startling wake. 

The beams of God's own hallow'd day- 
Had painted yonder spire with gold, 

And, calling sinful man to pray, 

Loud, long, and deep the bell had toll'd : 

But still the Wildgrave onward tides ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark again ! 
When, spurring from opposing sides, 

Two Stranger Horsemen join the train. 

Who was each Stranger, left and right, 

Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
The right-hand steed was silver white, 

The left, the swarthy hue of hell. 
The right-hand Horseman young and fair, 

His smile was like the morn of May ; 
The left, from eye of tawny glare, 

Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray. j 

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, 
Cried, ' ' Welcome, welcome, noble lord ! 



What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, . 
To match the princely chase, afford?" 

" Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell," 
Cried the fair youth, with silver voice ; 

"And for devotion's choral swell 
Exchange the rude unhallow'd noise. 

" To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, 
Yon bell yet summons to the fane ; 

To-day the Warning Spirit hear, 
To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.' ' — 

" Away, and sweep the glades along ! " 
The Sable Hunter hoarse replies ; 

"To muttering monks leave matin-song, 
And bells, and books, and mysteries." 

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, 
And, launching forward with a bound, 

"Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, 
Would leave the jovial horn and hound? 

" Hence, if our manly sport offend ! 

With pious fools go chant and pray :— 
Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd 
friend ; 

Halloo, halloo ! and, hark away ! " 
The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, 

O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill ; 
And on the left and on the right, 

Each stranger Horseman follow'd still. 



* Published (1706) with "William and Helen," and entitled "The Chase." 



360 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn, 
A stag more white than mountain snow : 

And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 
" Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" 

A heedless wretch has cross'd the way ; 

He gasps the thundering hoofs below ; — 
But, live who can, or die who may, 

Still, " Forward, forward ! " on they go. 

See, where yon simple fences meet, 

A field with Autumn'sblessings crown'd ; 

See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, 
A husbandman with toil embrown'd : 

" O mercy, mercy, noble lord! 

Spare the poor's pittance," was his cry, 
' ' Earn'd by the sweat these brows have 
pour'd, 

In scorching hour of fierce July." — 

Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 

The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, 
But furious holds the onward way. 

" Away, thou hound ! so basely born, 
Or dread the scourge's echoing blow ! " — 

Then loudly rung his bugle-horn, < 
" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" 

So said, so done: — A single bound 

Clears the poor labourer's humble pale; 

Wild follows man, and horse, and hound, 
Like dark December's stormy gale. 

And man and horse, and hound and horn, 
Destructive sweep the field along ; 

While, joying o'er the wasted corn, 

Fell Famine marks the maddening 
throng. 

Again uproused, the timorous prey 

Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill ; 

Hard run, he feels his strength decay, 
And trusts for life his simple skill. 

Too dangerous solitude appear'd ; 

He seeks the shelter of the crowd ; 
Amid the flock's domestic herd 

His harmless head he hopes to shroud. 

O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, 
His track the steady blood-hounds trace; 

O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, 
The furious Earl pursues the chase. 

Full lowly did the herdsman fall ; — 
" O spare, thou noble Baron, spare 

These herds, a widow's little all ; 
These flocks, an orphan's fleecy 
care ! " — 



Earnest the right-hand Stranger pleads, 
The left still cheering to the prey ; 

The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, 
But furious keeps the onward way. 

" Unmanner'd dog ! To stop my sport, 

Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, 
Though human spirits, of thy sort, 

Were tenants of these carrion kine ! "— 
Again he winds his bugle-horn, 

" Hark forward, forward, holla, ho ! " 
And through the herd, in ruthless scorn, 

He cheers his furious hounds to go. 

In heaps the throttled victims fall ; 

Down sinks their mangled herdsman 
near ; 
The murderous cries the stag appal, — 

Again he starts, new-nerved by fear. 
With blood besmear'd, and white with 
foam, 

While big the tears of anguish pour, 
He seeks, amid the forest's gloom, 

The humble hermit's hallow'd bower. 

But man and horse, and horn and hound, 
Fast rattling on his traces go ; 

The sacred chapel rung around 

With, "Hark away! and, holla, ho!" 

All mild, amid the rout profane, 
The holy hermit pour'd his prayer; 

" Forbear with blood God's house to stain ; 
Revere his altar, and forbear ! 

" The meanest brute has rights to plead, 
Which, wrong' d by cruelty, or pride, 

Draw vengeance on the ruthless head: — 
Be warn'd at length, and turn aside." 

Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads ; 

The Black, wild whooping, points the 
prey :— 
Alas ! the Earl no warning heeds, 

But frantic keeps the forward way. 

" Holy or not, or right or wrong, 
Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn ; 

Not sainted martyrs' sacred song, 
Not God himself, shall make me turn ! " 

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 
"Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' — 

But off, On whirlwind s pinions borne, 
The stag, the hut, the hermit, go. 

And horse and man, and horn and hound, 
And clamour of the chase, was gone ; 

For hoofs, and howls, and bugle-sound, 
A deadly silence reign'd alone, 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



36i 



Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around ; 

He strove in vain to wake his horn, 
In vain to call ; for not a sound 

Could from his anxious lips be borne. 

He listens for his trusty hounds ; 

No distant baying reach'd his ears : 
His courser, rooted to the ground, 

The quickening spur unmindful bears. 

Still dark and darker frown the shades, 

Dark as the darkness of the grave ; 
And not a sound the still invades, 

Save what a distant torrent gave. 
High o'er the sinner's humbled head 

At length the solemn silence broke ; 
And, from a cloud of swarthy red, 

The awful voice of thunder spoke. 
" Oppressor of creation fair ! 

Apostate Spirits' harden'd tool! 
Scorner of God ! Scourge of the poor ! 

The measure of thy cup is full. 

" Be chased for ever through the wood ; 

For ever roam the affrighted wild ; 
And let thy fate instruct the proud, 

God's meanest creature is his child." 

Tvvas hush'd :— One flash, of sombre 
glare,' 

With yellow tinged the forests brown ; 
Uprose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, 

And horror chill'd each nerve and bone. 

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill ; 
A rising wind began to sing ; 



And louder, louder, louder still, 

Brought storm and tempest on its wing. 

Earth heard the call ;— her entrails rend ; 

From yawning rifts, with many a yell, 
Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend 

The misbegotten dogs of hell. 

What ghastly Huntsman next arose, 

Well may I guess, but dare not tell ; 
His eye like midnight lightning glows, 

His steed the swarthy hue of hell. 
The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, 

With many a shriek of helpless woe ; 
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn, 

And, " Hark away, and holla, ho !" 

With wild despair's reverted eye, 
Close, close behind he marks the 
throng, 

With bloody fangs and eager cry ; 
In frantic fear he scours along.— 

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase, 
Till time itself shall have an end ; 

By day, they scour earth's cavern'd space, 
At midnight's witching hour, ascend. 

This is the horn, and hound, and hoisr, 
That oft the lated peasant hears ; 

Appall'd, he signs the frequent cross; 
When the wild din invades his ears. 

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear 
For human pride, for human woe, 

When, at his midnight mass, he hears 
The infernal cry of, " Holla, ho ! " 



THE FIRE-KING. 



L ."The blessings of the evil Genii, which are curses, were upon him." — Eastern Tale. 

[1801.] 

This ballad was written at the request of Mr. Lewis, to be inserted in his Tales of IVotider* 
It is the third in a series of four ballads, on the subject of Elementary Spirits. The story is, 
however, partly historical ; for it is recorded, that, during the struggles of the Latin kingdom of 
Jerusalem, a Knight-Templar, called Saint Alban, deserted to the Saracens, and defeated the 
Christians in many combats, till he was finally routed and slain, in a conflict with King 
Baldwin, under the walls of Jerusalem. 



Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp 

give an ear, 
Of love, and of war, and of wonder to hear, 
And you haply may sigh, in the midst of 

your glee, 
At the tale of Count Albert, and fair 

Rosalie. 



O see you that castle, so strong and so 

high? 
And see you that lady, the tear in her eye? 
And see you that palmer, from Palestine's 

land, 
The shell on his hat, and the staff in his 

hand?— 



Published in j8oj, 



— 



362 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Now palmer, gray palmer, O tell unto me, 
What news bring you home from the Holy 

Countrie ? 
And how goes the warfare by Galilee's 

strand? 
And how fare our nobles, the flower of the 

land?" — 

"O well goes the warfare by Galilee's 
wave, 

For Gilead, and Nablous, and Ramah we 
have ; 

And well fare our nobles by Mount Leba- 
non, 

For the Heathen have lost, and the Chris- 
tians have won." 

A fair chain of gold 'mid her ringlets there 

hung; 
O'er the palmer's gray locks the fair chain 

has she flung : 
"O palmer, gray palmer, this, chain be 

thy fee, 
For the news thou hast brought from the 

Holy Countrie. 

" And, palmer, good palmer, by Galilee's 
wave, 

O saw ye Count Albert, the gentle and 
brave ? 

When the Crescent went back, and the 
Red-cross rush'd on, 

O saw ye him foremost on Mount Leba- 
non?" — 

"O lady, fair lady, the tree green it 

grows ; 
O lady, fair lady, the stream pure it flows ; 
Your castle stands strong, and your hopes 

soar on high ; 
But, lady, fair lady, all blossoms to die. 

" The green boughs they wither, the thun- 
derbolt falls, 

It leaves of your castle but levin-scorch' d 
walls ; 

The pure stream runs muddy; the gay 
hope is gone ; 

Count Albert is prisoner on Mount Leba- 
non." 

O she's ta'en a horse, should be fleet at 

her speed ; 
And she's ta'en a sword, should be sharp 

at her need ; 
And she has ta'en shipping for Palestine's 

land, 
To ransom Count Albert from Soldanrie's 

hand; 



Small thought had Count Albert on fair 
Rosalie, 

Smali thought on his faith, or his knight- 
hood, had he : 

A heathenish damsel his light heart had 
won, 

The Soldan's fair daughter of Mount 
Lebanon. 

"O Christian, brave Christian, my love 

wouldst thou be, 
Three things must thou do ere I hearken 

to thee : 
Our laws and our worship on thee shalt 

thou take ; 
And this thou shalt first do for Zulema's sake. 

"And, next, in the cavern, where burns 

evermore 
The mystical flame which the Curdmans 

adore, 
Alone, and in silence, three nights shalt 

thou wake ; 
And this thou shalt "next do for Zulema's 

sake. 

"And, last, thou shalt aid us with coun- 
sel and hand, 

To drive the Frank robber from Palestine's 
land ; 

For my lord and my love then Count 
Albert I'll take, 

When all this is accomplish'd for Zulema's 
sake." 

He has thrown by his helmet, and cross- 
handled sword, 

Renouncing his knighthood^ denying his 
Lord; 

He has ta'en the green caftan, and turban 
put on, 

For the love of the maiden of fair Lebanon. 

And in the dread cavern, deep deep under 

ground, 
Which fifty steel gates and steel portals 

surround, 
He has watch'd until daybreak, but sight 

saw he none, 
Save the flame burning bright on its altar 

of stone. 

Amazed was the Princess, the Soldan 

amazed, 
Sore murmur' d the priests as on Albert 

they gazed ; 
They search'd all his garments, and, under 

his weeds, 
They found, and took from him, his rosary 

beads. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



363 



Again in the cavern, deep deep under 

ground, 
He watch'd the lone night, while the winds 

whistled round ; 
Far off was their murmur, it came not more 

nigh, 
The flame burn'd unmoved, jind nought 

else did he spy. 

Loud murmur'd the priests, and amazed 

was the King, 
While many dark spells of their witchcraft 

they sing ; 
They search'd Albert's body, and, lo ! on 

his breast 
Was the sign of the Cross, by his father 

impress'd. 

The priests they erase it with care and 
with pain, 

And the recreant return'd to the cavern 
again ; 

But, as he descended, a whisper there 
fell ; 

It was his good angel, who bade him fare- 
well ! 

High bristled his hair, his heart flutter'd 

and beat, 
And he turn'd him five steps, half resolved 

to retreat ; 
But his heart it was harden'd, his purpose 

was gone, 
When he thought of the Maiden of fair 

I^ebanon. 

Scarce pass'd he the archway, the thres- 
hold scarce trode, 

When the winds from the four points of 
heaven were abroad, 

They made each steel portal to rattle and 
ring, 

And, borne on the blast, came the dread 
Fire-King. 

Full sore rock'd the cavern whene'er he 
drew nigh, 

The fire on the altar blazed bickering and 
high ; 

In volcanic explosions the mountains pro- 
claim 

The dreadful approach of the Monarch of 
Flame. 

Unmeasured in height, undistinguish'd in 

form, 
His breath it was lightning, his voice it 

was storm ; 



I ween the stout heart of Count Albert 

was tame, 
When he saw in his terrors the Monarch 

of Flame. 

In his hand a broad falchion blue-glim- 
mer'd through smoke, 

And Mount Lebanon shook as the mon- 
arch he spoke : 

"With this brand shalt thou conquer, 
thus long, and no more, 

Till thou bend to the Cross, and the Virgin 
adore." 

The cloud -shrouded Arm gives the weapon ; 

and see ! 
The recreant receives the charm'd gift on 

his knee: 
The thunders growl distant, and faint 

gleam the fires, 
As, borne on the whirlwind, the phantom 

retires. 

Count Albert has arm'd him the Paynim 

among, 
Though his heart it was false, yet his arm 

it was strong ; 
And the Red-cross wax'd faint, and the 

Crescent came on, 
From the day he commanded on Mount 

Lebanon. 

From Lebanon's forests to Galilee's 

wave ; 
The sands of Samaar drank the blood of 

the brave ; 
Till the Knights of the Temple, and 

Knights of Saint John, 
With Salem's King Baldwin, against him 

came on. 

The war-cymbals clatter' d, the trumpets 

replied, 
The lances were couch'd, and they closed 

on each side ; 
And horsemen and horses Count Albert 

o'erthrew, 
Till he pierced the thick tumult King 

Baldwin unto. 

Against the charm'd blade which Count 
Albert did wield, 

The fence had been vain of the King's 
Red-cross shield ; 

But a Page thrust him forward the mon- 
arch before, 

And cleft the proud turban the renegade 
wore. 



3<H 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



So fell was the dint, that Count Albert 
stoop'd low 

Before the cross'd shield, to his steel 
saddlebow ; 

And scarce had he bent to the Red-cross 
his head, — 

"Bo/me Grace, Notre Dame!" he un- 
wittingly said. 

Sore sigh'd the charm'd sword, for its 

virtue was o'er, 
It sprung from his grasp, and was never 

seen more ; 
But true men have said, that the lightning's 

red wing 
Did waft back the brand to the dread 

Fire-King. 

He clench'd his set teeth, and his gaunt- 
leted hand ; 

He stretch'd, with one buffet, that Page 
on the strand ; 

As back from the stripling the broken 
casque roll'd, 

You might see the blue eyes, and the ring- 
lets of gold. 

Short time had Count Albert in. horror to 

stare 
On those death-swimming eyeballs, and 

blood-clotted hair ; 
For down came the Templars, like Cedron 

in flood, 
And dyed their long lances in Saracen blood . 



The Saracens, Curdmans, and Ishmaelites 

yield 
To the scallop, the saltier, and crossleted 

shield ; 
And the eagles were gorged with the 

infidel dead, 
From Bethsaida's fountains to Naphthali's 

head. 

The battle is over on Bethsaida's plain. — 
Oli, who is yon Paynim lies stretch'd 'mid 

the slain ? 
And who is yon Page lying cold at his 

knee ? — 
Oh, who but Count Albert and fair 

Rosalie! 

The Lady was buried in Salem's bless'd 

bound, 
The Count he was left to the vulture and 

hound : 
Her soul to high mercy Our Lady did 

bring ; 
His went on the blast to the dread Fire- 
King. 
Yet | many a minstrel, in harping, can 

tell, 
How the Red-cross it conquer' d, the Cres- 
cent it fell : 
And lords and gay ladies have sigh'd, 'mid 

their glee, 
At the tale of Count Albert and fair 

Rosalie. 



FREDERICK AND ALICE. 
[1801.] 



This tale is imitated, rather than translated, from a fragment introduced in Goethe's "Claudina 
von Villa Bella," where it is sung by a member of a gang of banditti, to engage the attention of 
the family, while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit it may possess 
to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an extremely rude state ; and who, after some 
material improvements, published it in his Tales of Wonder. 



Frederick leaves the land of France, 
Homeward hastes his steps to measure, 

Careless casts the parting glance 
On the scene of former pleasure. 

Joying in his prancing steed, 

Keen to prove his untried blade, 

Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead 
Over mountain, moor, and glade. 

Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn, 

Lovely Alice wept alone ; 
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn, 

Hope, and peace, and honour flown. 



Mark her breast's convulsive throbs ! 

See, the tear of anguish flows ! — 
Mingling soon with bursting sobs, 

Loud the laugh of frenzy rose. 

Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd ; 

Seven long days and nights are o'er ; 
Death in pity brought his aid, 

As the village bell struck four. 

Far from her, and far from France, 
Faithless Frederick onward rides ; 

Marking, blithe, the morning's glance 
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



365 



Heard ye not the boding sound, 
As the tongue of yonder tower, 

Slowly, to the hills around, 
Told the fourth, the fated hour? 

Starts the steed, and snuffs the air, 
Yet no cause of dread appears ; 

Bristles high the rider's hair, 
Struck with strange mysterious fears. 

Desperate, as his terrors rise, 
In the steed the spur he hides; 

From himself in vain he flies ; 
Anxious, restless, on he rides. 

Seven long days, and seven long nights, 
Wild he wander'd, woe the while! 

Ceaseless care, and causeless fright, 
Urge his footsteps many a mile. 

Dark the seventh sad night descends ; 

Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour; 
While the deafening thunder lends 

All the terrors of its roar. 

Weary, wet, and spent with toil, 

Where his head shall Frederick hide ? 

Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle, 
By the lightning's flash descried. 

To the portal, dank and low, 

Fast his steed the wanderer bound : 

Down a ruin'd staircase slow, 
Next his darkling way he wound. 

Long drear vaults before him lie ! 

Glimmering lights are seen to glide ! — 
" Blessed Mary, hear my cry ! 

Deign a sinner's steps to guide ! " 



Often lost their quivering beam, 
Still the lights move slow before, 

Till they rest their ghastly gleam 
Right against an iron door. 

Thundering voices from within, 
Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose ; 

As they fell, a solemn strain 

Lent its wild and wondrous close! 

'Midst the din, he seem'd to hear 
Voice of friends, by death removed ;- 

Well he knew that solemn air, 
'Twas the lay that Alice loved. — 

Hark ! for now a solemn knell, 
Four times on the still night broke : 

Four times, at its deaden' d swell, 
Echoes from the ruins spoke. 

As the lengthen' d clangours die, 

Slowly opes the iron door ! 
Straight a banquet met his eye, 

But a funeral's form it wore ! 

Coffins for the seats extend ; 

All with black the board was spread ; 
Girt by parent, brother, friend, 

Long since number' d with the dead ! 

Alice, in her grave-clothes bound, 
Ghastly smiling, points a seat ; 

All arose, with thundering sound ; 
All the expected stranger greet. 

High their meagre arms they wave, 
Wild their notes of welcome swell ; — 

' ' Welcome, traitor, to the grave ! 
Perjured, bid the light farewell ! " 



THE BATTLE OF SEMPACH.* 

[1818.] 

These verses are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sempach, 
fought 9th July, 1386, being the victory by which the Swiss cantons established their independ- 
ence ; the author, Albert Tchudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of a shoemaker. 
He was a citizen of Lucerne, esteemed highly among his countrymen, both for his powers as a 
Meister-Singer, or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier. 

The circumstance of their being written by a poet returning from the well-fought field he 
describes, and in which his country's fortune was secured, may confer on Tchudi's verses an 
interest which they are not entitled to claim from their poetical merit. But ballad poetry, the 
more literally it is translated, the more it loses its simplicity, without acquiring either grace or 
strength ; and, therefore, some of the faults of the verses must be imputed to the translator's 
feeling it a duty to keep as closely as possible to his original. The various puns, rude attempts 
at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes, must be set down to Tchudi's account, or to the 
taste of his age. 

I The military antiquary will derive some amusement from the minute particulars which the 
martial poet has recorded. The mode in which the Austrian men-at-arms received the charge 

* First published in Blackwood, Feb. 1818. 



366 



SCOT^S POETICAL WORKS, 



of the Swiss, was by forming a phalanx, which they defended with their long lances. The gallant 
Winkelreid, who sacrificed his own life by rushing among the spears, clasping in his arms as many 
as he could grasp, and thus opening a gap in those iron battalions, is celebrated in Swiss history. 
When fairly mingled together, the unwieldy length of their weapons, and cumbrous weight of 
their defensive armour, rendered the Austrian men-at-arms a very unequal match for the light- 
armed mountaineers. The victories obtained by the Swiss over the German chivalry, hitherto 
deemed as formidable on foot as on horseback, led to important changes in the art of war. The 
poet describes the Austrian knights and squires as cutting the peaks from their boots ere they 
could act upon foot, in allusion to an inconvenient piece of foppery, often mentioned in the 
Middle Ages. Leopold III., Archduke of Austria, called "the handsome man-at-arms," was 
slain in the battle of Sempach, with the flower of his chivalry. 



'Tvvas when among our linden-trees 
The bees had housed in swarms, 

(And gray-hair'd peasants say that these 
Betoken foreign arms, ) 

Then look'd we down to Willisow, 

The land was all in flame ; 
We knew the Archduke Leopold 

With all his army came. 

The Austrian nobles made their vow, 

So hot their heart and bold, 
"On Switzer carles we'll trample now, 

And slay both young and old." 

With clarion loud, and banner proud, 

From Zurich on the lake, 
In martial pomp and fair array, 

Their onward march they make. 

" Now list, ye lowland nobles all — 

Ye seek the mountain strand, 
Nor wot ye what shall be your lot 

In such a dangerous land. 

" I rede ye, shrive ye of your sins, 

Before ye farther go ; 
A skirmish in Helvetian hills 

May send your souls to woe." — 

" But where now sliall we find a priest 
Our shrift that he may hear ? " — 

" The Switzer priest* has ta'en the field, 
He deals a penance drear. 

" Right heavily upon your head 

He'll lay his hand of steel ; 
And with his trusty partisan 

Your absolution deal." — 

'Twas on a Monday morning then, 

The corn was steep' d in dew, 
And merry maids had sickles ta'en, 

When the host to Sempach drew. 

The stalwart men of fair Lucerne 

Together have they join'd ; 
The pith and core of manhood stern, 

Was none cast looks behind. 

* All the Swiss priests able to bear arms 
fought in this strife for their native land. 



It was the Lord of Hare-castle, 

And to the Duke he said, 
" Yon little band of brethren true 

Will meet us undismay'd." — 

"O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare!" 

Fierce Oxenstern replied. — 
" Shalt see then how the game will fare," 

The taunted knight replied. 

There was lacing then of helmets bright, 

And closing ranks amain ; 
The peaks they hew'd from their boot- 
points 

Might well-nigh load a wain.f 

And thus they to each other said, 

' ' Yon handful down to hew 
Will be no boastful tale to tell, 

The peasants are so few." — 

The gallant Swiss Confederates there 

They pray'd to God aloud, 
And he display' d his rainbow fair 

Against a swarthy cloud. 

Then heart and pulse throbb'd more and 
more 

With courage firm and high, 
And down the good Confederates bore 

On the Austrian chivalry. 

The Austrian Lion 'gan to growl, 

And toss his mane and tail ; 
And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt, 

Went whistling forth like hail. 

Lance, pike, and halbert mingled there, 
The game was nothing sweet ; 

The boughs of many a stately tree 
Lay shiver'd at their feet. 

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, 
So close their spears they laid ; 

It chafed the gallant Winkelreid, 
Who to his comrades said — 



t The boots of this period h*ad long points at 
the toes ; so long that in the time of our Richard 
II. they were chained up to the knees. Of 
course, they greatly impeded the wearer's 
movements on foot. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



36? 



•• I have a virtuous wife at home, 

A wife and infant son ; 
I leave them to my country's care, — 

This field shall soon be won. 

"These nobles lay their spears right thick, 

And keep full firm array, 
Yet shall my charge their order break, 

And make my brethren way." 

He rush'd against the Austrian band, 

In desperate career, 
And with his body, b,.east, and hand, 

Bore down each hostile spear. 

Four lances splinter'd on his crest, 

Six shiver'd in his side ; 
Still on the serried files he press'd — 

He broke their ranks, and died. 

Jfhis patriot's self-devoted deed 

First tamed the Lion's mood, 
And the four forest cantons freed [ 

From thraldom by his blood. 

Right where his charge had made a lane 

His valiant comrades burst, 
With sword, and axe, and partisan, 

And hack, and stab, and thrust. 

The daunted Lion 'gan to whine, 

And granted ground amain, 
The Mountain Bull* he bent his brows, 

And gored his sides again. 

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, 

At Sempach in the flight, 
The cloister vaults at Konig's-field 

Hold many an Austrian knight. 

It was the Archduke I-eopold, 

So lordly would he ride, 
But he came against the Switzer churls, 

And they slew him in his pride. 

The heifer said unto the bull, 

' ' And shall I not complain ? 
There came a foreign nobleman, 

To milk me on the plain. 

" One thrust of thine outrageous horn 
Has gall'd the knight so sore, 

That to the churchyard he is borne 
To range our glens no more." 



An Austrian noble left the stour, 
And fast the flight 'gan take : 

And he arrived in luckless hour 
At Sempach on the lake. 

He and his squire a fisher call'd, 
(His name was Hans Von Rot,) 

"For love, or meed, or charity, 
Receive us in thy boat ! " 

Their anxious call the fisher heard, 

And, glad the meed to win, 
His shallop to the shore he steer'd, 

And took the flyers in. 

And while against the tide and wind 

Hans stoutly row'd his way, 
The noble to his follower sign'd 

He should the boatman slay. 

The fisher's back was to them turn'd, 

The squire his dagger drew, 
Hans saw his shadow in the lake, 

The boat he overthrew. 

He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, 
He stunn'd them with his oar, 

" Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs, 
You'll ne'er stab boatman more. 

' ' Two gilded fishes in the lake 

This morning have I caught, 
Their silver scales may much avail, 

Their carrion flesh is naught." 

It was a messenger of woe 
Has sought the Austrian land : 

' ' Ah ! gracious lady, evil news ! 
My lord lies on the strand. 

"At Sempach, on the battle-field, 
His bloody corpse lies there." — 

"Ah, gracious God ! " the lady cried, ' 
" What tidings of despair ! " 

Now would you know the minstrel wight 

Who sings of strife so stern, 
Albert the Souter is he hight, 

A burgher of Lucerne. 

A merry man was he, I wot, 1 - 

The night he made the lay, 
Returning from the bloody spot, 

Where God had judged the day. 



The Urus, or wild-bull, gave name to the Canton of Uri. 



36S 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE NOBLE MORINGER.* 

AN ANCIENT BALLAD. 
[I8l 9 .] 



O, will you hear a knightly tale of old 

Bohemian day, 
It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed 

he lay ; 
He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, that 

was as sweet as May, 
And said, " Now, lady of my heart, attend 

the words I say. 



" Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage unto a 

distant shrine, 
And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, and 

leave the land that's mine ; 
Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, 

so thou wilt pledge thy fay, 
That thou for my return wilt wait seven 

twelvemonths and a day." 

in. 
Then out and spoke that Lady bright, sore 

troubled in her cheer, 
" Now tell me true, thou noble knight, what 

order takest thou here ; 
And who shall lead thy vassal band, and 

hold thy lordly sway, 
And be thy lady's guardian true when thou 

art far away?" 

IV. 

Out spoke the noble "Moringer, " Of that 

have thou no care, 
There's many a valiant gentleman of me 

holds living fair ; 
The trustiest shall rule my land, my vassals 

and my state, 
And be a guardian tried and true to thee, 

my lovely mate. 



"As Christian-man, I needs must keep 

the vow which I have plight, 
When I am far in foreign land, remember 

thy true knight ; 
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, 

for vain were sorrow now, 
But grant thy Moringer his leave, since 

God hath heard his vow." 



It was the noble Moringer from bed he 

made him boune, 
And met him there his Chamberlain, with 

ewer and with gown : 
He flung his mantle on his back, 'twas 

furr'd with miniver, 
He dipp'd his hand in water cold, and 

bathed his forehead fair. 

VII. 

"Now hear," he said, " Sir Chamberlain, 

true vassal art thou mine, 
And such the trust that I repose in that 

proved worth of thine, 
For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, 

and lead my vassal train, 
And pledge thee for my lady's faith till I 

return again." 

VIII. 

The Chamberlain was blunt and true, and 

sturdily said he, 
"Abide, my lord, and rule your own, and 

take this rede from me : 
That woman's faith's a brittle trust — Seven 

twelvemonths didst thou say ? 
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth beyond 

the seventh fair day." 



IX. 



his 



The noble Baron turn'd him round, 

heart was full of care, 
His gallant Esquire stood him nigh, he 

was Marstetten's heir, 
To whom he spoke right anxiously, " Thou 

trusty squire to me, 
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when 

I am o'er the sea? 

x. 

"To watch and ward my castle strong, 

and to protect my land, 
And to the hunting or the host to lead my 

vassal band ; 
And pledge thee for my Lady's faith till 

seven long years are gone, 
And guard her as Our Lady dear was 

guarded by Saint John." 



* Published in the EdMurgh Annual Register, 1819. 



Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but 
fiery, hot, and young, 

And readily he answer made with too pre- 
sumptuous tongue ; 

" My noble lord, cast care away, and on 
your journey wend, 

And trust this charge to me until your pil- 
grimage have end. 

XII. 

" Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall 
be truly tried, 

To guard your lands, and ward your 
towers, and with your vassals ride ; 

And for your lovely Lady's faith, so virtu- 
ous and so dear, 

I'll gage my head it knows no change, be 
absent thirty year." 

XIII. 

The noble Moringer took cheer when thus 
he heard him speak, 

And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and 
sorrow left his cheek ; 

A long adieu he bids to all — hoists top- 
sails, and away, 

And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven 
twelvemonths and a day. 

XIV. 
It was the noble Moringer within an 

orchard slept, 
When on the Baron's slumbering sense a 

boding vision crept ; 
And whisper'd in his ear a voice, " 'Tis 

time, Sir Knight, to wake, 
Thy lady and thy heritage another master 

take. 

xv. 
"Thy tower another banner knows, thy 

steeds another rein, 
And stoop them to another's will thy gal- 
lant vassal train ; 
And she, the Lady of thy love, so faithful 

once and fair, 
This night within thy fathers' hall she weds 

Marstetten's heir." 

XVI. 

It is the noble Moringer starts up and 

tears his beard, 
"O would that I had ne'er been born! 

what tidings have I heard ! 
To lose my lordship and my lands the less 

would be my care, 
But, God ! that e'er a squire untrue should 

wed my Lady fair. 



" O good Saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, 

' ' my patron Saint art thou, 
A traitor robs me of my land even while I 

pay my vow ! 
My wife he brings to infamy that was so 

pure of name, 
And I am far in foreign land, and must 

endure the shame." 

XVIII. 

It was the good Saint Thomas, then, who 

heard his pilgrim's prayer, 
And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it 

o'erpower'd his care ; 
He waked in fair Bohemian land out- 

stretch'd beside a rill, 
High on the right a castle stood, low on 

the left a mill. 

XIX. 

The Moringer he started up as one from 

spell unbound, 
And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed 

wildly all around ; 
"I know my fathers' ancient towers, the 

mill, the stream I know, 
Now blessed be my patron Saint who 

eheer'd his pilgrim's woe ! " 

xx. 

He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to the 
mill he drew, 

So alter'd was his goodly form that none 
their master knew ; 

The Baron to the miller said, " Good 
friend, for charity, 

Tell a poor palmer in your land what tid- 
ings may there be?" 

XXI. 

The miller answer'd him again, "He 

knew of little news, 
Save that the Lady of the land did a new 

bridegroom choose ; 
Her husband died in distant land, such is 

the constant word, 
His death sits heavy on our souls, he was 

a worthy Lord. 

XXII. 

' ' Of him I held the little mill which wins 

me living free, 
God rest the Baron in his grave, he still 

was kind to me ! 
And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, 

and millers take their toll, 
The priest that prays for Moringer shall 

have both cope and stole." 
24 



370 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



XXIII. 

It was the noble Moringer to climb the 

hill began, 
And stood before the bolted gate a woe 

and weary man ; 
"Now help # me, every saint in heaven that 

can compassion take, 
To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful 

match to break." 

XXIV. 

His very knock it sounded sad, his call 

was sad and slow, 
For heart and head, and voice and hand, 

were heavy all with woe ; 
And to the warder thus he spoke : ' ' Friend, 

to thy Lady say, 
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves 

harbour for a day. 

XXV. 

"I've wander'd many a weary step, my 
strength is well-nigh done, 

And if she turn me from her gate I'll see 
no morrow's sun ; 

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a 
pilgrim's bed and dole, 

And for the sake of Moringer's, her once- 
loved husband's soul." 

xxvr. 
It was the stalwart warder then he came 

his dame before, — 
"A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil' d, stands 

at the castle-door ; 
And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, 

for harbour and for dole, 
And for the sake of Moringer thy noble 

husband's soul." 

XXVII. 

The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do 

up the gate," she said, 
"And bid the wanderer welcome be to 

banquet and to bed ; 
And since he names my husband's name, 

so that he lists to stay, 
These towers shall be his harbourage a 

twelvemonth and a day." 

XXVIII. 

It was the stalwart warder then undid the 

portal broad, 
It was the noble Moringer that o'er the 

threshold strode : 
"And have thou thanks, kind Heaven," 

he said, " though from a man of sin, 
That the true lord stands here once more 

his castle-gate within." 



XXIX. 

Then up the halls paced Moringer, his 

step was sad and slow : 
It sat full heavy on his heart, noneseem'd 

their Lord to know ; 
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd 

with woe and wrong, 
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him 

seem'd little space so long, 

xxx. 

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and 

come was evening hour, 
The time was nigh when new-made brides 

retire to nuptial bower ; 
"Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, 

' ' hath been both firm and long, 
No guest to harbour in our halls till he 

shall chant a song." 

XXXI. 

Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there 

as he sat by the bride, 
" My merry minstrel folk," quoth he, "lay 

shalm and harp aside ; 
Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the 

castle's rule to hold, 
And well his guerdon will I pay with 

garment and with gold." — 

XXXII. 

" Chill flows the lay of frozen age," 'twas 

thus the pilgrim sung, 
"Nor golden meed nor garment gay 

unlocks his heavy tongue ; 
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at 

board as rich as thine, 
And by my side as fair a bride with all her 

charms was mine. 

- l XXXIII. 

"But time traced furrows on my face, 

and I grew silver-hair'd, 
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, 

she left this brow and beard ; 
Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread 

life's latest stage, 
And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay 

of frozen age." 

xxxiv. 
It was the noble Lady there this woeful lay 

that hears, 
And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye 

was dimm'd with tears ; 
She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden 

beaker take, 
And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it 

for her sake. 



BALLADS FROM THE GERMAN. 



371 



XXXV. 

It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd 

amid the wine 
A bridal ring of burning gold so costly 

and so fine : 
Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you 

but the sooth, 
'Twas with that very ring of gold he 

pledged his bridal truth. 

XXXVI. 

Then to the cupbearer he said, " Do me 

one kindly deed, 
And should my better days return, full rich 

shall be thy meed ; 
Bear back the golden cup again to yonder 

bride so gay, 
And crave her of her courtesy to pledge 

the palmer gray." 

XXXVII. 

The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was 

the boon denied, 
The golden cup he took again, and bore 

it to the bride ; 
"Lady," he said, "your reverend guest 

sends this, and bids me pray, 
That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge 

the palmer gray." 

XXXVIII. 

The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she 

views it close and near, 
Then might you hear her shriek aloud 

" The Moringer is here t 
Then might you see her start from seat, 

while tears in torrents fell, 
But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies 

best can tell. 

XXXIX. 

But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and 

every saintly power, 
That had return'd the Moringer before 

the midnight hour ; 



And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that 

never was there bride, 
That had like her preserved her troth, or 

been so sorely tried. 



"Yes, here I claim the praise," she said, 

" to constant matrons due, 
Who keep the troth that they have plight, 

so steadfastly and true ; 
For count the term howe'er you will, so 

that you count aright, 
Seven twelve-months and a day are out, 

when bells toll twelve to-night." 

XLI. 

It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion 

there he drew, 
He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down 

his weapon threw ; 
" My oath and knightly faith are broke," 

these were the words he said, 
" Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, 

and take thy vassal's head." 



The noble Moringer he smiled, and then 

aloud did say, 
"He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd 

seven twelve-months and a day ; 
My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame 

speaks her sweet and fair, 
I give her for the bride you lose, and name 

her for my heir. ; 



"The young bridegroom hath youthful 

bride, the old bridegroom the old, 
Whose faith was kept till term and tide so 

punctually were told ; 
But blessings on the warder kind that oped 

my castle gate, 
For had I come at_morrow tide, I came a 

day too late. 



THE ERL-KING. 

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE. 

(The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thuringia.— To be read by a candle 
particularly long in the snuff.) 



O, who rides by night thro* the woodland 

so wild ? 
It is the fond father embracing his 

child; 



And close the boy nestles within his loved 

arm, 
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself 

warm. 



372 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he 

says; 
" My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully 

gaze ! " — 
" O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and 

his shroud." 
" No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of 

the cloud." 

(THE ERL-KING SPEAKS.) 

' ' O come and go with me, thou loveliest 
.child; 

By many a gay sport shall thy time be be- 
guiled ; 

My mother keeps for thee full many a fair 
toy, 

And many a fine flower shall she pluck for 
my boy." 

' ' O father, my father, and did you not 

hear 
The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear? " — 
' ' Be still, my heart's darling — my child, 

be at ease ; 
It was but the wild blast as it sung thro' 

the trees." 

ERL-KING. 

"Owilt thou go with me, thou loveliest 

boy? 
My daughter shall tend thee with care and 

with joy; 



She shall bear thee so lightly thro' wet and 

thro' wild, 
And press thee, and kiss thee, and sing to 

my child." 

" O father, my father, and saw you not 

plain, 
The Erl-King's pale daughter, glide past 

thro' the rain? " — 
' ' O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full 

soon; 
It was the gray willow that danced to the 

moon." 

ERL-KING. 

"O come and go with me, no longer 

delay, 
Or else, silly child, I will drag thee 

away." — 
"O father! O father! now, now keep 

your hold, 
The Erl-King has seized me— his grasp is 

so cold ! " — 

Sore trembled the father ; he spurr'd thro 

the wild, 
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering 

child ; 
He reaches his dwelling in doubt and in 

dread, 
But, clasp'd to his bosom, the infant was 

dead /" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



THE VIOLET. 

These lines were first published in the 
English Minstrelsy, 1810. They were written 
in 1797, on occasion of the poet's disappoint- 
ment in love. — See Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 333. 

Thl violet in her green-wood bower, 
Where birchen boughs with hazels 
mingle, 

May boast itself the fairest flower 
In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. 

Though fair her gems of azure hue, 

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; 

I've seen an eye of lovelier hue, 
More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining. 

The summer sun that dew shall dry, 
Ere yet the day be past its morrow ; 



No longer in my false love's eye 

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow. 



TO A LADY. 

WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL. 

Written in 1797, on an excursion from 
Gillsland, in Cumberland. See Life, vol, 
P- 365- 
Take these flowers which, purple waving, 

On the ruin'd rampart grew, 
Where, the sons of freedom braving, 

Rome's imperial standards flew. 

Warriors from the breach of danger 
Pluck no longer laurels there ; 

They but yield the passing stranger 
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair. 






- 



WAR-SONG 

OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT 
DRAGOONS. 

1797. 

To horse ! to horse ! the standard flies, 

The bugles sound the call ; 
The Gallic navy stems the seas, 
The voice of battle's on the breeze, 

Arouse ye, one and all ! 

From high Dunedin's towers we come, 

A band of brothers true ; 
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, 
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd ; 

We boast the red and blue.* 

Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown 

Dull Holland's tardy train ; 
Their ravish' d toys tho' Romans mourn ; 
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, 

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ; 

Oh ! had they mark'd the avenging call 

Their brethren's murder gave, 
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, 
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, 
Sought freedom in the grave ! 

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, 

In Freedom's temple born, 
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, 
To hail a master in our isle, 

Or brook a victor's scorn ? 

No ! though destruction o'er the land 

Come pouring as a flood, 
The sun, that sees our falling day, 
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, 

And set that night in blood. 

For gold let Gallia's legions fight, 

Or plunder's bloody gain ; 
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, 
To guard our king, to fence our law, 

Nor shall their edge be vain. 

If ever breath of British gale 

Shall fan the tri-colour, 
Or footstep of invader rude, 
With rapine faul, and red with blood, 

Pollute our happy shore, — 

Then farewell home ! and farewell friends ! 

Adieu, each tender tie ! 
Resolved, we mingle in the tide, 
Where charging squadrons furious ride, 

To conquer or to die. 



The royal colours. 



To horse ! to horse ! the sabres gleam ; 

High sounds our bugle-call; 
Combined by honour's sacred tie, 
Our word is Laws and Liberty I 

March forward, one and all ! 



THE BARD'S INCANTATION. 

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF IN- 
VASION IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. 

The forest of Glenmore is drear, 

It is all of black pine and the dark oak- 
tree; 
And the midnight wind, to the mountain 
deer, 
Is whistling the forest lullaby ; 
The moon looks through the drifting 

storm, 
But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 
For the waves roll whitening to the land, 
And dash against the shelvy strand. 
There is a voice among the trees, 

That mingles with the groaning oak — 
That mingles with the stormy breeze, 
And the lake-waves dashing against the 
rock ; — 
There is a voice within the wood, 

The voice of the bard in fitful mood ; 
His song was louder than the blast, 
As the bard of Glenmore through the 
forest past. 

"Wake ye from your sleep of death, 

Minstrels and bards of other days ! 
For the midnight wind is on the heath, 

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze : 
The Spectre with his Bloody Hand.f 
Is wandering through the wild woodland : 
The owl and the raven are mute for dread, 
And the time is meet to awake the dead ! 
' ' Souls of the mighty, wake and say, 

To what high strain your harps were 
strung, 
When Lochlin plow'd her billowy way, 

And on your shores her Norsemen flung? 
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood, 
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food, 
All, by your harpings, doom'd to die 
On bloody Largs and Loncarty. j 

" Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange 
Upon the midnight breeze sail by ; 



t The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a 
spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. 

X Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland 
received two bloody defeats. 



374 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor through the pines, with whistling 
change 
Mimic the harp's wild harmony? 
Mute are ye now ? — Ye ne'er were mute, 
When Murder with his bloody foot, 
And Rapine with his iron hand, 
Were hovering near yon mountain strand. 

" O yet awake the strain to tell, 
By every deed in song enroll'd, 
By every chief who fought or fell, 

For Albion's weal in battle bold : — 
From Coilgach,* first who roll'd his car 
Through the deep ranks of Roman war, 
To him, of veteran memory dear. 
Who victor died on Aboukir. 

" By all their swords, by all their scars, 

By all their names, a mighty spell . 
By all their wounds, by all their wars, 

Arise, the mighty strain to tell! 
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, 
More impious than the heathen Dane, 
More grasping than all-grasping Rome, 
Gaul's ravening legions hither come ! " — 
The wind is hush'd, and still the. lake — 

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, 
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, 

At the dread voice of other years— 
" When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, 
And blades round warriors' k heads were 

flung, 
The foremost of the band were we, 
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty ! " 



HELVELLYN. 

1805. 

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman 
of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, 
perished by losing his way on the mountain 
Helvellyn. His remains were not discovered 
till three months afterwards, when they were 
found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his 
constant attendant during frequent solitary 
rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and 
Westmoreland. 

I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty 
Helvellyn, 
Lakes and mountains beneath me 
gleam'd misty and wide ; 
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle 
was yelling, 
And starting around me the echoes re- 
plied. > 

* The Galgacus of Tacitus. 



On the right, Striden-edge round the Red- 
tarn was bending, 

And Catchedicam its left verge was de- 
fending, 

One huge nameless rock in the front was 
ascending, 
When I mark'd the sad spot where the 
wanderer had died. 

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown 
mountain-heather, 
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay 
stretch'd in decay, 

Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd 
to weather, 
Till the mountain winds wasted the 
tenantless clay. 

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely ex- 
tended, 

For, faithful in death, his mute favourite 
attended, 

The much-loved remains of her master de- 
fended, 
And chased the hill-fox and the raven 
away. 

How long didst thou think that his silence 

was slumber? 
When the wind waved his garment, how 

oft didst thou start ? 
How many long days and long weeks didst 

thou number, 
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of 

thy heart ? 
And, oh ! was it meet, that — no requiem 

read o'er him— 
No mother to weep, and no friend to de- 
plore him, 
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd 

before him — 
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life 

should depart ? 

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant 

has yielded, 
The tapestry waves dark round the dim- 
lighted hall ; 
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is 

shielded, 
And pages stand mute by the canopied 

pall: 
Through the # courts, at deep midnight, 

the torches are gleaming ; 
In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners 

are beaming, 
Far adovvn the long aisle sacred music is 

streaming, [fall. 

Lamenting a Chief of the people should 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



375 



But meeter for thee, gentle lover of 

nature, 
To lay down thy head like the meek 

mountain lamb, 
When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff 

huge in stature, 
And draws his last sob by the side of his 

dam. 
And more stately thy couch by this desert 

lake lying, 
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover 

flying, 
With one faithful friend but to witness 

thy dying, 
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catche- 

dicam. 



THE DYING BARD. 

1806. 

Air — Daffy dz Gangiven. 

^ The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on 
iris death-bed, demanded his harp, and played 
the air to which these verses are adapted ; re- 
questing that it might be performed at his 
funeral. 



Dinas Emlinn, lament ; for the moment 

is nigh, 
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes 

shall die : 
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall 

rave, 
And mix his wild notes with the wild 

dashing wave. 

II. 
In spring and in autumn thy glories of 

shade 
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd 

shall fade ; 
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the 

tongue, 
That view'd them with rapture, with 

rapture that sung. 

in. 

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in 
their pride, 

And chase the proud Saxon from Pres- 
tatyn's side ; 

But where is the harp shall give life to 
their name ? 

And where is the bard shall give heroes 
their fame ? 



IV. 

And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so 

fair, 
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the 

dark hair ; 
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship 

their eye, • 
When half of their charms with Cadwallon 

shall die ? 

v. 
Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved 

scene, 
To join the dim choir of the bards who 

have been ; 
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin 

the Old, 
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. 

VI. 

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn ! still green be 
thy shades, 

Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless 
thy maids ! 

And thou, whose faint warblings my weak- 
ness can tell, 

Farewell, my loved Harp, my last treasure, 
farewell ! 



THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. 

1806. 

Air — The War-Song of the Men of Glamorgan. 

The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, 
and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, 
were usually unable to encounter the shock of 
the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, 
however, they were successful in repelling the 
invaders ; and the following verses are sup- 
posed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of 
Striguiland Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron 
of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouth- 
shire. Rymny is a stream which divides the 
counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Caer- 
phili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale 
upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very 
ancient castle. 

Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, 
And hammers din, and anvil sounds, 
And armourers, with iron toil, 
Barb many a steed for battle's broil. 
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel 
Around the courser's thundering heel, 
That e'er shall dint a sable wound 
On fahr Glamorgan's Velvet ground ! 



376 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, 
Was heard afar the bugle horn ; 
And forth in banded pomp and pride, 
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. 
They swore their banners broad should 

gleam, 
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream ; 
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel 
The Norman charger's spurning heel. 

in. 
And sooth they swore — the sun arose, 
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows ! 
For Clare's red banner, floating wide, 
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide ! 
And sooth they vow'd — the trampled green 
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had 

been: 
In every sable hoof-tramp stood 
A Norman horseman's curdling blood ! 



Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil, 
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil ; 
Their orphans long the art may rue, 
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. 
No more the stamp of armed steed 
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead ; 
Nor trace be there, in early spring, 
Save of the Fairies' emerald ring. 



THE MAID OF TORO. 

1806. 

O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of 
Toro, 
And weak were the whispers that waved 
the dark wood, 
All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sor- 
row, 
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to 
the flood. 
' ' O saints ! from the mansions of bliss 
lowly bending ; 
Sweet Virgin ! who hearest the sup- 
pliant's cry, 
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascend- 
ing, 
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die ! " 

All distant and faint were the sounds of the 
battle, 
With the breezes they rise, with the 
breezes they fail, 



Till the shout, and the groan, and the con- 
flict s dread rattle, 
And the chase's wild clamour, came 
loading the gale. 
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so 
dreary ; 
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen ; 
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so 
weary, 
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his 
mien. 

" O save thee, fair maid, for our armies are 
flying ! 
O save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian 
is low ! 
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry 
is lying, 
And fast through the woodland ap- 
proaches the foe." 
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, 
And scarce could she hear them, be- 
numb'd with despair : 
And when the sun sank on the sweet lake 
of Toro, 
For ever he set to the Brave and the Fair. 



THE PALMER. 
1806. 

" O OPEN the door, some pity to show, 
Keen blows the northern wind ! 

The glen is white with the drifted snow, 
And the path is hard to find. 

"No outlaw seeks your castle gate, 
From chasing the King's deer, 

Though even an outlaw's wretched state 
Might claim compassion here. 

' ' A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 

I wander for my sin ; 
O open, for Our Lady's sake ! 

A pilgrim's blessing win ! 

"I'll give you pardons from the Pope, 
And reliques from o'er the sea; — . 

Or if for these you will not ope, 
Yet open for charity. 

" The hare is crouching in her form, 

The hart beside the hind ; 
An aged man, amid the storm, 

No shelter can I find. 

You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, 
Dark, deep, and strong is he, 



"t 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



377 



And I must ford the Ettrick o'er, 
Unless you pity me. 

" The iron gate is bolted hard, 

At which I knock in vain ; 
The owner's heart is closer barr'd, 

Who hears me thus complain. 

" Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, 

When old and frail you be, 
You never may the shelter want, 

That's now denied to me." 

The Ranger on his couch lay warm, 
And heard him plead in vain ; 

But oft amid December's storm, 
He'll hear that voice again : 

For lo, when through the vapours dank, 

Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 
A corpse amid the alders rank, 

The Palmer welter'd there. 



THE MAID OF NEIDPATH. 

1806. 

There is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when 
Neidpath Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited 
by the Earls of March, a mutual passion sub- 
sisted between a daughter of that noble family, 
and a son of the Laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick 
Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuit- 
able by her parents, the young man went 
abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into 
a consumption ; and at length, as the only 
means of saving her life, her father consented 
that her lover should be recalled. On the Bay 
when he was expected to pass through Peebles, 
on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, 
though much exhausted, caused herself to be 
carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, 
belonging to the family, that she might see 
him as he rode past. Her anxiety and eager- 
ness gave such force to her organs, that she is 
said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps 
at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, un- 
prepared for the change in her appearance, and 
not expecting to see her in that place, rode on 
without recognizing her, or even slackening his 
pace. The lady was unable to support the 
shock ; and, after a short struggle, died in the 
arms of her attendants. There is an incident 
similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamil- 
ton's " Fleur d'Epine." 

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, 

And lovers' ears in hearing ; 
And love, in life's extremity, 

Can lend an hour of cheering. 
Disease had been in Mary's bower, 

And slow decay from mourning, 



Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower, 
To watch her love's returning. 

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright, 

Her form decay'd by pining, 
Till through her wasted hand, at night. 

You saw the taper shining ; 
By fits, a sultry hectic hue 

Across her cheek was flying ; 
By fits, so ashy pale she grew, 

Her maidens thought her dying. 

Yet keenest powers to see and hear, 

Seem'd in her frame residing ; 
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear, 

She heard her lover's riding ; 
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd, 

She knew, and waved to greet him ; 
And o'er the battlement did bend, 

As on the wing to meet him. 

He came — he pass'd — a heedless gaze, 

As o'er some stranger glancing ; 
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase, 

Lost in his courser's prancjng — 
The castle arch, whose hollow tone 

Returns each whisper spoken, 
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan, 

Which told her heart was broken. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

1806. 

All joy was bereft me the day that you 
left me, 
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon 
wide sea ; 
O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, 
And bann'd it for parting my Willie and 
me. 

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow 'd thy 
fortune, 
Oft fought the squadrons of France and 
of Spain ; 
Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at 
parting, 
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. 

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds 
they were wailing, 
I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my ee, 
And thought o' the bark where my Willie 
was sailing, 
And wish'd that the tempest could a' 
blaw on me. 



373 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Now that thy gallant ship rides at her 
mooring, 
Now that my wanderer's in safety at 
hame, 
Music to me were the wildest winds' 
roaring, 
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark 
ocean faem. 

When the lights they did blaze, and the 
guns they did rattle, 
And blithe was each heart for the great 
victory, 
In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, 
And the glory itself was scarce comfort 
to me. 

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly 
listen, 
Of each bold adventure, and every brave 
scar ; 
And trust me, I'll smile, though my een 
they may glisten ; 
For sweet after danger's the tale of the 
war. 

And oh, how we doubt when there's dis- 
tance 'tween lovers, 
When there's naething to speak to the 
heart thro' the ee ; 
How often the kindest and warmest prove 
rovers, 
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like 
the sea. 

Till, at times— could I help it? — I pined 
and I ponder'd 
If love could change notes like the bird 
on the tree — 
Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae 
wander' d, 
Enough, thy leal heart has been con- 
stant to me. 

Welcome from sweeping o'er sea and 
through channel, 
Hardships and danger despising for 
fame, 
Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, 
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and 
hame; 

Enough, now thy story in annals of glory 

Has humbled the pride of France, 

Holland, and Spain ; 

No more shalt thou grieve me, no more 

shalt thou leave me, 

I never will part with my Willie again. 



HUNTING SONG.* 
1808. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day, 

All the jolly chase is here, 

With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 

Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they, 

" Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 

Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 

Diamonds on the brake are gleaming : 

And foresters have busy been, 

To track the buck in thicket green ; 

Now we coma to chant our lay, 

"Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

To the green-wood haste away ; 

We can show you where he lies, 

Fleet of foot, and tall of size ; 

We can show the marks he made, 

When, 'gain.3t the oak his antlers fray'd ; 

You shall see him brought to bay, 

f ' Waken, lords and ladies gay." 

Louder, louder chant the lay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay ! 

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, 

Run a course as well as we ; 

Time, stern huntsman ! who can baulk. 

Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk : 

Think of this, and rise with day, 

Gentle lords and ladies gay. 



HEALTH TO LORD MELVILLE.f 
1806. 
AfR.^Carrick/ergus. 
Since here we are set in array round the 
table, 
Five hundred good fellows well met in a 
hall, 
Come listen, brave boys, and I'll sing as 
I'm able, 
How innocence triumph'd, and pride got 
a fall. 



* Published in the continuation of Strutt's 
curious romance called " Queenhoo Hall," 
1808. 

t A Broadside printed at the time of Lord 
Melville's acquittal. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



379 



But push round the claret — , 

Come, stewards, don't spare it — 
With rapture you'll drink to the toast that 
I give : 

Here, boys, 

Off with it merrily — 
Melville for ever, and long may he live ! 

What were the Whigs doing, when boldly 
pursuing, 
Pitt* banish'd Rebellion, gave Treason 
a string ? 
Why, they swore on their honour, for 
Arthur O'Connor, 
And fought hard for Despard against 
country and king. 
Well, then, we knew, boys, 
Pitt and Melville were true boys, 
And the tempest was raised by the friends 
of Reform. 
Ah, woe! 

Weep to his memory ; 
Low lies the Pilot that weather'd the storm! 

And pray, don't you mind when the Blues 
first were raising, 
And we scarcely could think the house 
safe o'er our heads? 
When villains and coxcombs, French 
politics praising, 
Drove peace from our tables and sleep 
from our beds? 
Our hearts they grew bolder 
When, musket on shoulder, 
Stepp'd forth our old Statesman example 
to give. 
Come, boys, never fear, 
Drink the Blue Grenadier — 
Here's to old Harry, and long may he live ! 

They would turn us adrift ; though rely, 
sir, upon it — 
Our own faithful chronicles warrant us 
that 
The free mountaineer and his bonny blue 
bonnet 
Have oft gone as far as the regular's hat. 
We laugh at their taunting, 
For all we are wanting 
Is licence our life for our country to give. 
Off with it merrily, 
Horse, foot, and artillery, 
Each loyal Volunteer, long may he live ! 

'Tis not us alone, boys — the Army and 
Navy 
Have each got a slap 'mid their politic 
pranks ; 



CORNWALLis-cashier'd, that watch'd win- 
ters to save ye, 
And the Cape call'd a bauble, unworthy 
of thanks. 

But vain is their taunt ; 
No soldier shall want 
The thanks that his country to valour can 
give ; 

Come, boys, 
Drink it off merrily, — 
Sir David and Popham, and long may 
they live ! 

And then our revenue — Lord knows how 
they view'd it, 
While each petty statesman talked lofty 
and big ; 
But the beer-tax was weak, as if Whit- 
bread had brew'd it, 
And the pig-iron duty a shame to a pig. 
In vain is their vaunting ; 
Too surely there's wanting 
What judgment, experience, and steadi- 
ness give : 
Come, boys, 
Drink about merrily, — 
Health to sage Melville, and long may 
he live ! 

Our King, too — our Princess — I dare not 
say more, sir, — 
May Providence watch them with mercy 
and might ? 
While there's one Scottish hand that can 
wag a claymore, sir, 
They shall ne'er want a friend to stand 
up for their right. 

Be damn'd he that dare not, — 
For my part, I'll spare not 
To beauty afflicted a tribute to give : 
Fill it up steadily, 
Drink it off readily — 
Here's to the Princess, and long may she 
live ! 

And since we must not set Auld Reekie in 
glory, 
And make her brown visage as light as 
her heart ; * 
Till each man illumine his own upper story, 
Nor law-book nor lawyer shall force us 
to part. 

In Grenville and Spencer, 
And some few good men, sir, 



* The Edinburgh magistrates refused to per- 
mit illuminations. 



3So 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



High talents we honour, slight difference 
forgive ; 

But the Brewer we'll hoax, 

Tallyho to the Fox, 
And drink Melville for ever, as long as 

we live ! 



EPITAPH, 



r Designed for a monument in Lichfield 
Cathedral, at the burial-place of the family of 
Miss Seward. 

Amid these aisles, where once his precepts 

show'd 
The Heavenward pathway which in life he 

trod, 
This simple tablet marks a Father's bier, 
And those he loved in life, in death are 

near; 
For him, for them, a Daughter bade it rise, 
Memorial of domestic charities. 
Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the 

marble spread, 
In female grace the willow droops her 

head; 
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, 
The minstrel harp is emblematic hung ; 
What poet's voice is smother'd here in dust, 
Till waked to join the chorus of the 

just, 

Lo ! one brief line an answer sad supplies, 
Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here 

Seward lies ! 
Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friend- 
ship say, — 
Go seek her genius in her living lay. 



THE RESOLVE. 

IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH 
POEM. 

Published in the " Edinburgh Annual 
Register." 

1808. 

MY wayward fate I needs must plain, 

Though bootless be the theme : 
I loved, and was beloved again, 

Yet all was but a dream ; 
For, as her love was quickly got, 

So it was quickly gone ; 
No more I'll bask in flame so hot, 

But coldly dwell alone. 



Not maid more bright than maid was e'er 

My fancy shall beguile, 
By flattering word or feigned tear, 

By gesture, look, or smile : 
No more I'll call the shaft fair shot, 

Till it has fairly flown, 
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot ; — 

I'll rather freeze alone. 

Each ambush'd Cupid I'll defy, 

In cheek, or chin, or brow, 
And deem the glance of woman's eye 

As weak as woman's vow : 
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart, 

That is but lightly won ; 
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art, 

And learn to live alone. 

The flaunting torch soon blazes out, 

The diamond's ray abides ; 
The flame its glory hurls about, 

The gem its lustre hides : 
Such gem I fondly deem'd was mine, 

And glow'd a diamond stone, 
But, since each eye may see it shine, 

I'll darkling dwell alone. 

No waking dream shall tinge my thought 

With dyes so bright and vain ; 
No silken net, so slightly wrought, 

Shall tangle me again : 
No more I'll pay so dear for wit, 

I'll live upon mine own ; 
Nor shall wild passion trouble it, — 

I'll rather dwell alone. 

And thus I'll hush my heart to rest, — 

" Thy loving labour's lost ; 
Thou shalt no more be wildly blest, 

To be so strangely crost : 
The widow'd turtles mateless die, 

The phoenix is but one ; 
They seek no loves — no more will I — 

I'll rather dwell alone." 



PROLOGUE 

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE 
FAMILY LEGEND. 

1809. 

'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh, 
Through forests tinged with russet, wail 

and die ; 
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear 
Of distant music, dying on the ear ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



38i 



But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, 
We list the legends of our native land, 
Link'd as they come with every tender tie, 
Memorials dear of youth and infancy. 

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, 
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy 

son. 
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, 
Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, 
He hears with throbbing heart and 

moisten'd eyes, 
And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise ! 
It opens on his soul his native dell, 
The woods wild waving, and the water's 

swell ; 
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats 

the plain, 
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain ; 
The cot, beneath whose simple porch were 

told, 
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, 
The infant group, that hush'd their sports 

the while, 
And the dear maid who listen'd with a 

smile. 
The wanderer, while the vision warms his 

brain, 
Is denizen of Scotland once again. 

Are such keen feelings to the crowd 
confined, 
And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind ? 
Oh no! For She, within whose mighty 

page 
Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and 

rage, 
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, 
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. 
•Yourselves shall judge— whoe'er has raised 

the sail 
By Mull's dark coast, has heard this even- 
ing's tale. 
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, 
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar 
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to- 
night 
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight ; 
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give 
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe 

and live ; 
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve 
The filial token of a Daughter's love. 



THE POACHER. 

Written in imitation of Crabbe, arid pub- 
lished in the Edinburgh Annual Register of 



Welcome, grave Stranger, to our green 

retreats, 
Where health with exercise and freedom 

meets ; . 

Thrice welcome, Sage, whose philosophic 

plan 
By nature's limits metes the rights of man! 
Generous as he, who now for freedom 

bawls, 
Now gives full value for true Indian 

shawls : 
O'er court, o'er customhouse, his shoe who 

flings, 
Now bilks excisemen, and now bullies 

kings ! 
Like his, I ween, thy comprehensive mind 
Holds laws as mouse-traps baited for man- 
kind; 
Thine eye, applausive, each sly vermin sees, 
That baulks the snare, yet battens on the 

cheese? 
Thine ear has heard, with scorn instead of 

awe, 
Our buck -skinn'd justices expound the law, 
Wire-draw the acts that fix for wires the 

pain, 
And for the netted partridge noose the 

swain ; 
And thy vindictive arm would fain have 

broke 
The last light fetter of the feudal yoke, 
To give the denizens of wood and wild, 
Nature's free race, to each her free-born 

child. 
Hence hast thou mark'd, with grief, fair 

London's race 
Mock'd with the boon of one poor Easter 

chase, 
And long'd to send them forth as free as 

when 
Pour'd o'er Chantilly the. Parisian train, 
When musket, pistol, blunderbuss, com- 
bined, 
And scarce the field-pieces were left be- 
hind ! 
A squadron's charge each leveret's heart 

dismay'd, 
On every covey fired a bold brigade ; 
La Douce Humanite approved the sport, 
For great the alarm indeed, yet small the 

hurt; 



382 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shouts patriotic solemnized the day, 
And Seine re-echo'd Vive la Liberte"! 
But mad Citoycn, meek Monsieur again, 
With some few added links resumes his 

chain. 
Then, since such scenes to France no more 

are known, 
Come, view with me a hero of thine own ! 
One, whose free actions vindicate the cause 
Of sylvan liberty o'er feudal laws. 

Seek we yon glades, where the proud 

oak o'ertops 
Wide-waving seas of birch and hazel copse, 
Leaving between deserted isles of land, 
Where stunted heath is patch'd with ruddy 

sand; 
And lonely on the waste the yew is seen, 
Or straggling hollies spread a'brighter green. 
Here, little worn, and winding dark and 

steep, 
Our scarce mark'd path descends yon dingle 

deep: 
Follow — but heedful, cautious of a trip, — 
In earthly mire philosophy may slip. 
Step slow and wary o'er that swampy 

stream, 
Till, guided by the charcoal's smothering 

steam, 
We reach the frail yet barricaded door 
Of hovel form'd for poorest of the poor ; 
No hearth the fire, no vent the smoke re- 
ceives, 
The walls are wattles, and the covering 

leaves; 
For, if such hut, our forest statutes say, 
Rise in the progress of one night and day, 
(Though placed where still the Conqueror's 

hests o'erawe, 
And his son's stirrup shines the badge of 

law,) 
The builder claims the unenviable boon, 
To tenant dwelling, framed as slight and 

soon 
As wigwam wild, that shrouds the native frore 
On the bleak coast of frost-barr'd Labrador.* 

Approach, and through the unlatticed 
window peep — 

Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep ; 

Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun 

Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are 
done. 

Loaded and primed, and prompt for des- 
perate hand, 

* The New Forest is now disforested, and 
Us laws, &c, become a thing of the past. 



Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand ; 
While round the hut are in disorder laid 
The tools and booty of his lawless trade ; 
For force or fraud, resistance or escape, 
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the 

crape. 
His pilfer'd powder in yon nook he hoards, 
And the filch'd lead the church's roof 

affords — 
(Hence shall the rector's congregation fret, 
That while his sermon's dry his walls are 

wet.) 
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are 

there, 
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins 

of hare, 
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare. 
Barter'd for game from chase or warren 

won, 
Yon cask holds moonlight, f run when 

moon was none ; 
And late-snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hutch 

apart, 
To wait the associate higgler's evening cart. 

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his 

rest: 
What scenes perturb' d are acting in his 

breast ! 
His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain, 
And his dilated nostril toils in vain ; 
For short and scant the breath each effort 

draws, 
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a 

pause. 
Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth 

stretch'd, 
His sinewy throat seems by convulsion 

twitch'd, 
While the tongue falters, as to utterance 

loth, 
Sounds of dire import — watchword, threat, 

and oath. 
Though, stupefied by toil, and drugg'd 

with gin, 
The body sleep, the restless guest within 
Now plies on wood and wold his lawless 

trade, 
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dis- 

may'd. — 

" Was that wild start of terror and de- 
spair, 
Those bursting eyeballs, and that wilder'd 

air, 
Signs of compunction for a murder'd hare? 

t A cant term for smuggled spirits. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



383 



Do the locks bristle and the eyebrows arch, 
For grouse or partridge massacred in 
March?" 

No, scoffer, no ! Attend, and mark with 

awe, 
There is no wicket in the gate of law ! 
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar 
That awful portal, must undo each bar : 
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride, 
Will join to storm the breach, and force 

the barrier wide. 

That ruffian, whom true men avoid and 

dread, 
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call 

Black Ned, 
Was Edward Mansell once ; — the lightest 

heart 
That ever play'd on holiday his part ! 
The leader he in every Christmas game, 
The harvest-feast grew blither when he 

came, 
And liveliest on the chords .the bow did 

glance, 
When Edward named the tune and led the 

dance. 
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and 

strong, 
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song ; 
And if he loved a gun, his father swore, 
" 'Twas but a trick of youth would soon be 

o'er, 
Himself had done the same some thirty 

years before." 

But he whose humours spurn law's awful 

yoke, 
Must herd with those by whom law's bonds 

are broke. 
The common dread of justice soon allies 
The clown, who robs the warren, or 

excise, 
With sterner felons train'd to act more 

dread, 
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow 

bled. 
Then, — as in plagues the foul contagions 

pass, 
Leavening and festering the corrupted 

mass, — 
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual 

motives draw, 
Their hope impunity, their fear the law ; 
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous 

the same, 
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game, 



Flesh the young culprit, and example leads 
To darker villany, and direr deeds. 

Wild howl'd the wind the forest glades 

along, 
And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song ; 
Around the spot where erst he felt the 

wound, 
Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight 

round. 
When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting 

look, 
From the green marshes of the stagnant 

brook 
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges 

shook ! 
The waning moon, with storm-presaging 

gleam, 
Now gave and now withheld her doubtful 

beam ; 
The old Oak stoop' d his arms, then flung 

them high, 
Bellowing and groaning to the troubled 

sky — 
'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brush- 
wood sere, 
In iVlalwood-walk young Mansell watch'd 

the deer : 
The fattest buck received his deadly shot — 
The watchful keeper heard, and sought 

the spot. 
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was 

their strife, 
O'erpower'd at length the Outlaw drew his 

knife ! 
Next morn a corpse was found upon the 

fell— 
The rest his waking agony may tell ! 



SONG. 



Oh, -say not, my love, with that mortified 
air, 
That your spring-time of pleasure is 
flown, 
Nor bid me to maids that are younger 
repair, 
For those raptures that still are thine own. 

Though April his temples may wreathe 
with the vine, 
Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 
'Tis the ardour of August matures us the 
wine, 
Whose life-blood enlivens the world. 



Though thy form, that was fashion" d as 
light as a fay's, 
Has assumed a proportion more round, 
And thy glance, that was bright as a 
falcon's at gaze, 
Looks soberly now on the ground, — 

Enough, after absence to meet me again, 
Thy steps still with ecstasy move ; 

Enough, that those dear sober glances 
retain 
For me the kind language of love. 



THE BOLD DRAGOON ; 

OR, THE PLAIN OF BADAJOS. 

1812. 

'TWAS a Marshal of France, and he fain 

would honour gain, 
And he long'd to take a passing glance at 
Portugal from Spain ; 
With his flying guns this gallant gay, 
And boasted corps d'arm^e — 
O he fear'd not our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly 

sat down, 
Just a fricassee to pick, while his soldiers 
sack'd the town, 
When, 'twas peste! morbleu! mon 

General, 
Hear the English bugle-call ! 
And behold the light dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Right about went horse and foot, artillery 

and all, 
And, as the devil leaves a house, they 
■ tumbled through the wall; 
They took no time to seek the door, 
But, best foot set before — 
O they ran from our dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Those valiant men of France they had 

scarcely fled a mile, 
When on their flank there soused at once 
the British rank and file : 
For Long, De Grey, and Otway, then 
Ne'er minded one to ten, 
But came on like light dragoons, with 
their long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



Three hundred British lads they made 

three thousand reel, 
Their hearts were made of English oak, 
their swords of Sheffield steel, 
Their horses were in Yorkshire bred, 
And Beresford them led ; 
So huzza for brave dragoons, with their 
long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 

Then here's a health to Wellington, to 

Beresford, to Long, 
And a single word of Bonaparte before I 
close my song : 
The eagles that to fight he brings 
Should serve his men with wings, 
When they meet the bold dragoons, with 
their long swords, boldly riding, 
Whack, fal de ral, &c. 



ON THE MASSACRE OF 

GLENCOE. 

1 8 14. 

" In the beginning of the year 1692, an 
action of unexampled barbarity disgraced the 
government of King William III. in Scotland. 
In the August preceding, a proclamation had 
been issued, offering an indemnity to such in- 
surgents as should take the oaths to the King 
and Queen, on or before the last day of 
December; and the chiefs of such tribes as 
had been in arms for James, soon after took 
advantage of the proclamation. But Mac- 
donald of Glencoe was prevented by accident, 
rather than by design, from tendering his sub- 
mission within the limited time. In the end of 
December he went to Colonel Hill, who com- 
manded the garrison in Fort-William, to take 
the oaths of allegiance to the government ; and 
the latter having furnished him with a letter to 
Sir Colin Campbell, sheriff of the county of 
Argyle, directed him to repair immediately to 
Inverary, to make his submission in a legal 
manner before that magistrate. But the way 
to Inverary lay through almost impassable 
mountains, the season was extremely rigorous, 
and the whole country was covered with a deep 
snow. So eager, however, was Macdonald to 
take the oaths before the limited time should 
expire, that, though the road lay within half a 
mile of his own house, he stopped not to visit 
his family, and, after various obstructions, 
arrived at Inverary. The time had elapsed, 
and the sheriff hesitated to receive his sub- 
mission ; but Macdonald prevailed by his im- 
portunities, and even tears, in inducing that 
functionary to administer to him the oath of 
allegiance, and to certify the cause of his 
delay. At this time Sir John Dalrymple, after- 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



385 



wards Earl of Stair, being in attendance upon 
William as Secretary of State for Scotland, 
took advantage of Macdonald's neglecting to 
take the oath within the time prescribed, and 
procured from the king a warrant of military 
execution against that chief and his whole clan. 
This was done at the instigation of the Earl of 
Breadalbane, whose lands the Glencoe men had 
plundered, and whose treachery to government 
in negotiating with the Highland clans, Mac- 
donald himself had exposed. The King was 
accordingly persuaded that Glencoe was the 
main obstacle to the pacification of the High- 
lands ; and the fact of the unfortunate chiefs 
submission having been concealed, the san- 
guinary orders for proceeding to military exe- 
cution against his clan were in consequence 
obtained. The warrant was both signed and 
countersigned by the King's own hand, and 
the Secretary urged the officers who commanded 
in the Highlands to execute their orders with 
the utmost rigour. Campbell of Glenlyon, a 
captain in Argyle's regiment, and two subal- 
terns, were ordered to repair to Glencoe on the 
first of February with a hundred and twenty 
men. Campbell, being uncle to young Mac- 
donald's wife, was received by the father with 
all manner of friendship and hospitality. The 
men were lodged at free q uarters in the houses 
of his tenants, and received the kindest enter- 
tainment. Till the 13th of the month the 
troops lived in the utmost harmony and famili- 
arity with the people ; and on the very night 
of the massacre the officers passed the evening 
at cards in Macdonald's house. In the night, 
Lieutenant Lindsay, with a party of soldiers, 
called in a friendly manner at his door, and 
was instantly admitted. Macdonald, while in 
the act of rising to receive his guest, was shot 
dead through the back with two bullets. His 
wife had already dressed ; but she was stripped 
naked by the soldiers, who tore the rings off 
her fingers with their teeth. The slaughter 
now became general, and neither age nor in- 
firmity was spared. Some women, in defend- 
ing their children, were killed ; boys imploring 
mercy were shot dead by officers on whose 
knees they hung. In one place nine persons, 
as they sat enjoying themselves at table, were 
butchered by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, 
Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first 
bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals, 
one by one. Nearly forty persons were mas- 
sacred by the troops ; and several who fled to 
the mountains perished by famine and the 
inclemency of the season. Those who escaped 
owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieu- 
tenant Colonel Hamilton, who had received the 
charge of the execution from Dairy mple, was on 
his march with four hundred men, to guard all 
the passes from the valley of Glencoe ; but he was 
obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, 
which proved the safety of the unfortunate 
clan. Next day he entered the valley, laid the 
houses in ashes, and carried away the cattle 
and spoil, which were divided among the 



officers and soldiers." — Article "Britain," 
Encyc. Britannica — New Edition. 

' ' O TELL me, Harper, wherefore flow 
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe, 
Far down the desert of Glencoe, 

Where none may list their melody ? 
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, 
Or to the dun-deer glancing by, 
Or to the eagle, that from high 

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?" — 

" No, not to these, for they have rest, — 
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, 
The stag his lair, the erne her nest, 

Abode of lone security. 
But those for whom I pour- the lay. 
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray, 
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day, 

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty. 

' ' Their flag was furl'd, and mute their 

drum, 
The very household dogs were dumb, 
Unwont to bay at guests that come 

In guise of hospitality. 
His blithest notes the piper plied, 
Her gayest snood the maiden tied, 
The dame her distaff flung aside, 

To tend her kindly housewifery. 

" The hand that mingled in the meal, 
At midnight drew the felon steel, 
And gave the host's kind breast to feel 

Meed for his hospitality! 
The friendly hearth which warm'd that 

hand, 
At midnight arm'd it with the brand, 
That bade destruction's flames expand 

Their red and fearful blazonry. 

" Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, 

Nor infancy's unpi tied plain, 

More than the warrior's groan, could gain 

Respite from ruthless butchery ! 
The winter wind that whistled shrill, 
The snows that night that cloked the hill, 
Though wild and pitiless, had still 

Far more than Southern clemency. 

"Long have my harp's best notes been 

gone, 
Few are its strings, and faint their tone, 
They can but sound in desert lone 

Their gray-hair' d master's misery. 
Were each gray hair a minstrel string, 
Each chord should imprecations fling, 
Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 

' Revenge for blood and treachery J 
2 5 



386 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



FOR A' THAT AN' A THAT. 

A NEW SONG TO AN OLD TUNE. 
1814. 

Though right be aft put down by strength, 

As mony a day we saw that, 
The true and leilfu' cause at length 

Shall bear the grie for a that. 
For a' that an' a' that, 

Guns, guillotines, and a' that, 
The Fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, 

Is queen again for a' that ! 

We'll twine her in a friendly knot 

With England's Rose, and a' that ; 
The Shamrock shall not be forgot, 

For Wellington made braw that. 
The Thistle, though her leaf be rude, 

Yet faith we'll no misca' that, 
She shelter'd in her solitude 

The Fleur-de-lis, for a' that. 

The Austrian Vine, the Prussian Pine 

(For Blucher's sake, hurra that,) 
The Spanish Olive, too, shall join, 

And bloom in peace for a' that. 
Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined 

Around our wreath we'll draw that, 
And he that would the cord unbind, 

Shall have it for his cra-vat 1 

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, 

Your pity scorn to thraw that, 
The Devil's elbow be his lot, 

Where he may sit and claw that. 
In spite of slight, in spite of might, 

In spite of brags, an' a' that, 
The lads that battled for the right, 

Have won the day, an' a' that ! 

There's ae bit spot I had forgot, 

America they ca' that ; 
A coward plot her rats had got 

Their father's flag to gnaw that : 
Now see it fly top-gallant high, 

Atlantic winds shall blaw that, 
And Yankee loon, beware your croun, 

There's kames in hand to claw that! 

For on the land, or on the sea, 
Where'er the breezes blaw that, 

The British Flag shall bear the grie, 
And win the day for a' that 1 



SONG, 

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY" MEETING OF 
THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. 

1814. 

O, dread was the time, and more dread- 
ful the omen, 
When the brave on Marengo lay 
slaughter'd in vain, 
And beholding broad Europe bow'd down 
by her foemen, 
Pitt closed in his anguish the map of 
her reign ! 
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend 
his brave spirit 
To take for his country the safety of 
shame ; 
O, then in her triumph remember his 
merit, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
name. 

Round the husbandman's head, while he 
traces the furrow, 
The mists of the winter may mingle with 
rain, 
He may plough it with labour, and sow it 
in sorrow, 
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it 
in vain ; 
He may die ere his children shall reap in 
their gladness, 
But the blithe harvest-home shall re- 
member his claim ; 
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd 
with sadness, 
While they hallow the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Though anxious and timeless his life was 
expended, 
In toils for our country preserved by his 
care, 
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations 
ascended, 
To light the long darkness of doubt and 
despair ; 
The storms he endured in our Britain's 
December, 
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'er- 
came, 
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain 
remember, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to his 
name. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



387 



Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark 
in affliction, 
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, 
And to sounds the most dear to paternal 
affection, 
The shout of his people applauding his 
Son; 
By his firmness unmoved in success and 
disaster, 
By his long reign of virtue, remember 
his claim ! 
With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of 
his Master, 
Though a tear stain the goblet that flows 
to his name. 

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change 
the sad measure, 
The rites of our grief and our gratitude 
paid, 
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the 
bright treasure, 
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal 
that obey'd. 
Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like 
his glory, 
Forget not our own brave Dalhousie 
and Graeme ; 
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound 
at their story, 
And hallow the goblet that flows to their 
fame. 



LINES, 

ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, 
ESQ., OF STAFFA. 

1814. 

STAFFA, sprung from high Macdonald, 
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald ! 
Staffa ! king of all kind fellows ! 
Well befall thy hills and valleys, 
Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows — 
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder, 
Echoing the Atlantic thunder ; 
Mountains which the gray mist covers, 
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers, 
Pausing while his pinions quiver, 
Stretchd to quit our land for ever ! 
Each kind influence reign above thee ! 
Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Staffa, 
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa ! 



Sowgs Hub IJoimts from SEaoerlcg. 

" On receiving intelligence of his commission 
as captain of a troop of horse in Colonel Gar- 
diner's regiment, his tutor, Mr. Pembroke, 
picked up about Edward's room some frag- 
ments of irregular verse, which he appeared to 
have composed under the influence of the 
agitating feelings occasioned by this sudden 
page being turned up to him in the book of life ' 
— Waverley, chap. v. 

Late, when the autumn evening fell 
On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell, 
The lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam, 
The purple cloud, the golden beam : 
Reflected in the crystal pool, 
Headland and bank lay fair and cool ; 
The weather-tinted rock and tower, 
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower, 
So true, so soft, the mirror gave, 
As if there lay beneath the wave, 
Secure from trouble, toil, and care, 
A world than earthly world more fair. 

But distant winds began to wake, 
And roused the Genius of the Lake ! 
He heard the groaning of the oak, 
And donn'd at once his sable cloak, 
As warrior, at the battle cry, 
Invests him with his panoply ; 
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd, 
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest 
O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek, 
And bade his surge in thunder speak. 
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd, 
Flitted that fond ideal world ; 
And, to the shore in tumult tost, 
The realms of fairy bliss were lost. 

Yet, with a stern delight and strange, 
I saw the spirit-stirring change. 
As warr'd the wind with wave and wood, 
Upon the ruin'd tower I stood, 
And felt my heart more strongly bound.. 
Responsive to the lofty sound, 
While, joying in the mighty roar, 
I mourn'd that tranquil scene no more. 

So, on the idle dreams of youth 
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth, 
Bids each fair vision pass away, 
Like landscape on the lake that lay, 
As fair, as flitting, and as frail, 
As that which fled the autumn gale — 
For ever dead to fancy's eye 
Be each gay form that glided by, 
While dreams of love and lady's charms 
Give place to honour and to arms ! 



388 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



DAVIE GELLATLEYS SONGS. 

" He (Daft Davie Gellatley) sung with great 
earnestness, and not without some taste, a 
fragment of an old Scotch ditty : " 

False love, and hast thou play'd me this 

In summer among the flowers ? 
I will repay thee back again 

In winter among the showers. 
Unless again, again, my love, 

Unless you turn again ; 
As you with other maidens rove, 

I'll smile on other men. 

The Knight's to the mountain 

His bugle to wind ; 
The Lady's to greenwood 

Her garland to bind. 
The bower of Burd Ellen 

Has moss on the floor, 
That the step of Lord William 

Be silent and sure. — Chap. ix. 

"The stamping of horses was now heard in 
the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing 
to the two large deer greyhounds." 

Hie away, hie away, 
Over bank and over brae, 
Where the copsewood is the greenest, 
Where the fountains glisten sheenest, 
Where the lady-fern grows strongest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest, 
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it, 
Where the fairy latest trips it : 
Hie to haunts right seldom seen, 
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green, 
Over bank and over brae, 
Hie away, hie away. — Chap. xii. 

Young men will love thee more fair and 
more fast ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? 
Old men's love the longest will last, 

And the throstle cock ' s head is under his 
wing. 

The young man's wrath is like light straw 

on fire ; 

Heard ye so merry the little bird sing ? 

But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire, 

And the throstle-cock 's head is under his 

wing. 

The young man will brawl at the evening 

board ; 
Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? 
But the old man will draw at the dawning 

the sword, 
And the throstle-cock's head is under his 

wing. — Chap. xiv. 



ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR. 

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye 

to rest, 
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd ; 
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead, 
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed. 

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag 

will ride, 
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her 

side, 
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud, 
Sailing through moonshine or swathed in 

the cloud. 

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair, 
The dew of the night has damp'd her 

hair: 
Her cheek was pale — but resolved and high 
Was the word of her lip and the glance of 

her eye. 

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, 
When his naked foot traced the midnight 

wold, 
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the 

night, 
And bade her descend, and her promise 

plight. 

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, 
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled 

air, 
Questions three, when he speaks the spell, 
He may ask, and she must tell. 

The Baron has been with King Robert his 

liege, 
These three long years in battle and siege ; 
News are there none of his weal or his woe, 
And fain the Lady his fate would know. 

She shudders and stops as the charm she 

speaks ; — 
Is it the moody owl that shrieks? 
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and 

scream, 
The voice of the Demon who haunts the 

stream? 

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low, 
And the roaring torrent had ceased to 

flow ; 
The calm was more dreadful than raging 

storm, 
When the cold gray mist brought the 
ghastly form ! 

* * * * # 

"hap. xiii. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



389 



FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. 

There is mist on the mountain, and night 

on the vale, 
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of 

the Gael. 
A stranger commanded — it sunk on the 

land, 
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd 

every hand ! 

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, 

The bloodless claymore is but redden'd 
with rust ; 

On the hill or the glen if a gun should ap- 
pear, 

It is only to war with the heath-cock or 
deer. 

The deeds of our sires if our bards should 

rehearse, 
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of 

their verse ! 
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every 

tone, 
That shall bid us remember the fame that 

is flown. 

But the dark hours of night and of slumber 

are past, 
The morn on our mountains is dawning 

at last ; 
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the 

rays, 
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright 

in the blaze. 

O high-minded Moray ! — the exiled— the 
dear! — 

In the blush of the dawning the Standard 
uprear ! 

Wide, wide on the winds of the north let 
it fly, 

Like the sun's latest flash when the tem- 
pest is nigh ! 

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning 
shall break, 

Need the harp of the aged remind you to 
wake ? 

That dawn never beam'd on your fore- 
fathers' eye, 

But it roused each high chieftain to van- 
quish or die. 

O sprung from the Kings who in Islay 

kept state, 
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, 

and Sleat ! 



Combine like three streams from one 

mountain of snow, 
And resistless in union rush down on the 

foe. 

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, 

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and bur- 
nish thy steel ! 

Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's 
bold swell, 

Till far Coryarrich resound to the knell ! 

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of 
Kintail, 

Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in 
the gale ! 

May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless 
and free, 

Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dun- 
dee ! 

Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose off- 
spring has given 

Such heroes to earth , and such martyrs to 
heaven, 

Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri 
More, 

To launch the long galley, and stretch to 
the oar ! 

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief 

shall display 
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of 

gray! 
How the race of wrong'd Alpine and 

murder'd Glencoe 
Shall shout for revenge when they pour 

on the foe ! 

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the 

wild boar, 
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum- 

More! 
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the 

Lake, 
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance 

awake ! 

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake ! 
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and 

the lake ! 
'Tis the bugle — but not for the chase is the 

call; 
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons — but not 

to the hall. 

'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or 
death, 

When the banners are blazing on moun- 
tain and heath ; 



390 



SCOTT 'S POETICAL WORKS. 



They call to the dirk, the claymore, and 

the targe, 
To the march and the muster, the line and 

the charge. 

Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in 

his ire ! 
May the blood through his veins flow like 

currents of fire! 
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires 

did of yore ! 
Or die, like your sires, ard endure it no 

more! — Chap. xxii. 



TO AN OAK TREE, 



In the Churchyard of - 



in the High- 



lands of Scotland, said to mark the grave 

of Captain Wogan, killed in 1649. 
Emblem of England's ancient faith, 

Full proudly may thy branches wave, 
Where loyalty lies low in death, 

And valour fills a timeless grave. 
And thou, brave tenant of the tomb ! 

Repine not if our clime deny, 
Above thine honour'd sod to bloom, 

The flowrets of a milder sky. 
These owe their birth to genial May ; 

Beneath a fiercer sun they pine, 
Before the winter storm decay — 

And can their worth be type of thine ? 
No ! for 'mid storms of Fate opposing, 

Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart, 
And while Despair the scene was closing, 

Commenced thy brief but brilliant part. 

'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's hill, 
(When England's sons the strife re- 
sign'd,) 

A rugged race resisting still, 
And unsubdued though unrefined. 

Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail, 
No holy knell thy requiem rung ! 

Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, 
Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch sung. 

Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine 

To waste life's longest term away, 
Would change that glorious dawn of thine, 

Though darken'd ere its noontide day ? 
Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs 

Brave summer's drought and winter's 
gloom ! 
Rome bound with oak her patriots' brows, 

As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb. 

Chap. xxix. 



FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, 

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL. 
From the Gaelic. 
1815. 
The original verses are arranged to a beauti- 
ful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted 
to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, 
and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary 
jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed 
by the Family Bard upon the departure of the 
Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take 
refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at 
insurrection m favour of the Stuart family, in 
the year 17 18. 

Farewell to Mackenneth, great Earl of 

the North, 
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and 

Seaforth ; 
To the Chieftain this morning his course 

who began, 
Launching forth on the billows his bark 

like a swan. 
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his 

sail : 
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew, 
May her captain be skilful, her mariners 

true, 
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil, 
Though the whirlwind should rise, and 

the ocean should boil : 
On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his 

bonail,* 
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail 1 

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet south- 
land gale ! 

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 
on his sail ; 

Be prolong'd as regret, that his vassals 
must know, 

Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their 
woe: 

Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, 
sweet gale, 

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief 
of Kintail ! 

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and 

wise, 
To measure the seas and to study the skies : 



* Bonail, or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase 
for a feast at parting with a friend. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



m 



May he hoist all his canvas from streamer 

to deck, 
But O ! crowd it higher when wafting him 

back — 
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's 

glad vale, 
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of 

Kintail ! 



WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN, 

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. 

From the Gaelic. 

1815. 

This song appears to be imperfect, or, at 
least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, 
makes a rapid transition from one subject to 
another ; from the situation, namely, of one 
of the daughters of the clan, who opens the 
song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to 
an eulogium over the military glories of the 
Chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to 
imitate the abrupt style of the original. 

A weary month has wander'd o'er 
Since last we parted on the shore ; 
Heaven ! that I saw thee, Love, once more, 

Safe on that shore again ! — 
'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word : 
Lachlan, of many a galley lord : 
He call'd his kindred bands on board, 

And launch'd them on the main. 

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone, 
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known ; 
Rejoicing in the glory won 

In many a bloody broil : 
For wide is heard the thundering fray. 
The rout, the ruin, the dismay, 
When from the twilight glens away 

Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. 

Woe to the hills that shall rebound 
Ourbanner'd bag-pipes' maddeningsound ; 
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round, 

Shall shake their inmost cell. 
Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze, 
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays ! 
The fools might face the lightning's blaze 

As wisely and as well ! 



SAINT CLOUD. 

Paris, $lh September, 1815. 

Soft spread the southern summer night 
Her veil of darksome blue ; 



Then thousand stars combined to light 
The terrace of Saint Cloud. 

The evening breezes gently sigh'd, 

Like breath of lover true, 
Bewailing the deserted pride 

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. 

The drum's deep roll was heard afar, 

The bugle wildly blew 
Good-night to Hu'lan and Hussar, 

That garrison Saint Cloud. 

The startled Naiads from the shade 

With broken urns withdrew, 
And silenced was that proud cascade, 

The glory of Saint Cloud. 

We sate upon its steps of stone, 

Nor could its silence rue, 
When waked, to music of our own, 

The echoes of Saint Cloud. 

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note 

Fall light as summer dew, 
While through the moonless air they float, 

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. 

And sure a melody more sweet 

His waters never knew, 
Though music's self was wont to meet 

With Princes at Saint Cloud. 

Nor then, with more delighted ear, 

The circle round her drew, 
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear 

Our songstress at Saint Cloud. 

Few happy hours poor mortals pass, — 
Then give those hours their due, 

And rank among the foremost class 
Our evenings at Saint Cloud. 



THE DANCE OF DEATH. 
1815. 

Night and morning were at meeting 

Over Waterloo ; 
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting ; 

Faint and low they crew, 
For no paly beam yet shone 
On the heights of Mount Saint John ; 
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway 
Of timeless darkness over day ; 
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower, 
Mark'd it a predestined hour. 
Broad and frequent through the night 
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light ; 



39* 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Muskets, glancing lightnings back, 
Show'd the dreary bivouac 

Where the soldier lay, 
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, 
Wishing dawn of morn again, 

Though death should come with day. 



"Tis at such a tide and hour, 
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, 
And ghastly forms through mist and 
shower 

Gleam on the gifted ken ; 
And then the affrighted prophet's ear 
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear 
Presaging death and ruin near 

Among the sons of men ; — 
Apart from Albyn's war-array, 
Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay ; 
Gray Allan, who, for many a day, 

Had follow 'd stout and stern, 
Where, through battle's rout and reel, 
Storm of shot and hedge of steel, 
Led the grandson of Lochiel, 

Valiant Fassiefern. 
Through steel and shot he leads no more, 
Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore — 
But long his native lake's wild shore, 
And Sunart rough and high Ardgower, 

And Morven long shall tell, 
And proud Bennevis hear with awe, 
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, 
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra 

Of conquest as he fell. 



"Lone on the outskirts of the host, 
The weary sentinel held post, 
And heard, through darkness far aloof, 
The frequent clang of courser's hoof, 
Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, 
And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving 

horse ; 
But there are sounds in Allan's ear, 
Patrol nor sentinel may hear, 
And sights before his eye aghast 
Invisible to them have pass'd, 

When down the destined plain, 
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, 
Wild as marsh-born meteor's glance, 
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, 

And doom'd the future slain. — 
Such forms were seen, such sounds were 

heard 
When Scotland's James his march pre- 
pared 

For Flodden's fatal plain ; 



Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, 
As Choosers of the Slain, adored 

The yet unchristen'd Dane. 
An indistinct and phantom band, 
They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in 
hand, 
With gestures wild and dread ; 
The Seer, who watch'd them ride thestorm. 
Saw through their faint and shadowy form 
The lightning's flash more red ; 
And still their ghastly roundelay 
Was of the coming battle-fray, 
And of the destined dead. 

IV. 

Song. 

Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Our airy feet, 
So light and fleet, 

They do not bend the rye 
That sinks its head when whirlwinds 

rave, 
And swells again in eddying wave, 

As each wild gust blows by ; 
But still the corn, 
At dawn of morn, 

Our fatal steps that bore, 
At eve lies waste, 
A trampled paste 

Of blackening mud and gore. 

v. 
Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Wheel the wild dance ! 
Brave sons of France, 

For you our ring makes room ; 
Make space full wide 
For martial pride, 

For banner, spear, and plume. 
Approach, draw near, 
Proud Cuirassier ! 

Room for the men of steel ! 
Through crest and plate 
The broadsword's weight 

Both head and heart shall feel. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



393 



VI. 

Wheel the wild dance ! 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Sons of the Spear ! 
You feel us near 

In many a ghastly dream ; 
With fancy's eye 
Our forms you spy, 

And hear our fatal scream. 
With clearer sight 
Ere falls the night, 

Just when to weal or woe 
Your disembodied souls take flight 
On trembling wing — each startled 
sprite 

Our choir of death shall know. 

vir. 
Wheel the wild dance 
While lightnings glance, 

And thunders rattle loud, 
And call the brave 
To bloody grave, 

To sleep without a shroud. 

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, 
Redder rain shall soon be ours — 

See the east grows wan — 
Yield we place to sterner game, 
Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame 
Shall the welkin's thunders shame; 
Elemental rage is tame 

To the wrath of man. 

VIII. 
At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe 
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw, 

The legend heard him say; 
But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, 
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb, 

Ere closed that bloody day- 
He sleeps far from his Highland heath,— 
But often of the Dance of Death 

His comrades tell the tale, 
On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, 
And waning watch-hres glow less bright, 

And dawn is glimmering pale. 



ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.* 

FROM THE FRENCH. 

ISIS- 

The original of this little Romance makes 
part of a manuscript collection of French Songs 
(probably compiled by some young officer), 
which was found on the field of Waterloo, so 
much stained with clay and with blood, as 
sufficiently to indicate the fate of its late 
owner. The song is popular in France, and is 
rather a good specimen of the style of com- 
position to which it belongs. The translation 
is strictly literal. 

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was 

bound for Palestine, 
But first he made his orisons before St. 

Mary's shrine : 
" And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," 

was still the Soldier's prayer, 
"That 1 may prove the bravest knight, and 

love the fairest fair." 

His oath of honour on the shrine he graved 
it with his sword, 

And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner 
of his Lord ; 

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war- 
cry fill'd the air, 

' ' Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, 
beloved the fairest fair." 

They owed the conquest to his arm, and 

then his Liege-Lord said, 
' ' The heart that has for honour beat by 

bliss must be repaid. — 
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a 

wedded pair, 
For thou art bravest of the brave, she 

fairest of the fair." 

And then they bound the holy knot before 

Saint Mary's shrine, 
That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts 

and hands combine ; 
And every lord and lady bright, that were 

in chapel there, 
Cried, "Honour'd be the bravest knight, 

beloved the fairest fair ! " 



* " Partant pour la Syrie " was written and 
the air composed by Queen Hortense of Hol- 
land, the daughter of Josephine, and the mother 
of Napoleon III. It has become the national 
air of France. 



394 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE TROUBADOUR. 

FROM THE SAME COLLECTION. 

Also Composed and Written by Queen 

Hortense. 

1815. 

Glowing with love, on fire for fame, 

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, 
Beneath his Lady's window came, 

And thus he sung his last good-morrow 
" My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my true-love's bower ; 
Gaily for love and fame to fight 

Befits the gallant Troubadour." 

And while he march'd with helm on head 

And harp in hand, the descant rung, 
As, faithful to his favourite maid, 

The minstrel-burden still he sung : 
" My arm it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
Resolved for love and fame to fight, 

I come, a gallant Troubadour." 

Even when the battle-roar was deep, 

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 
Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, 

And still was heard his warrior lay : 
" My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
For love to die, for fame to fight, 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 

Alas ! upon the bloody field 

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, 
But still reclining on his shield, 

Expiring sung the exulting stave : 
" My life it is my country's right, 

My heart is in my lady's bower ; 
For love and fame to fall in fight 

Becomes the valiant Troubadour." 



Fidelity was 'born of Reason, 
And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. 



FROM THE FRENCH. 
1815. 
It chanced that Cupid on a season, 
By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, 
But could not settle whether Reason 
Or Folly should partake his bed. 

What does he then ? — Upon my life, 
'Twas bad example for a deity — 

He takes me Reason for a wife, 
And Folly for his hours of gaiety. 

Though thus he dealt in petty treason, 
He loved them both in equal measure ; 



SONG. 



On the lifting of the banner of the House 
of Buccleuch, at a great foot-ball match 
on Carterhaugh. 

1815. 

From the brown crest of Newark its sum- 
mons extending, 
Our signal is waving in smoke and in 
flame; 
And each forester blithe, from his moun- 
tain descending, 
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in 
the game. 



Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her. 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
and more; 
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend 
her, 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 

When the Southern invader spread waste 
and disorder, 
At the glance of her crescents he paused 
and withdrew, 
For around them were marshall'd the pride 
of the Border, 
The Flowers of the Forest, the bands of 
Buccleuch. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has 
borne her, 
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spear- 
men surround ; 
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or 
should scorn her, 
A thousand true hearts would be cold on 
the ground. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

We forget each contention of civil dissen- 
sion, 
And hail, like our brethren, Home, 
Douglas, and Car : 

And Elliot and Pringle in pastime 
shall mingle, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



39< 



As welcome in peace as their fathers in 
war. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp 
be the weather, 
And if, by mischance, you should hap- 
pen to fall, 
There are worse things in life than a tum- 
ble on heather, 
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. 
Then up with the Banner, &c. 

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe 
measure 
To each Laird and each Lady that wit- 
ness'd our fun, 
And to every blithe heart that took part in 
our pleasure, 
To the lads that have lost and the lads 
that have won. 

Then up with the Banner, &c. 

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough 

and Landward, 
From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's 

ingle-nook ; 
And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buc- 

CLEUCH and his standard, 
For the King and the Country, the Clan 

and the Duke ! 

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds 
fan her, 
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages 
and more; 
In sport we 11 attend her, in battle defend 
her, 
With heart and with hand, like our 
fathers before. 



LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 

Air— Cadul gu lo. 

1815. 



O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a 

knight, 
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright ; 
The woods and the glens, from the towers 

which we see, 
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. 
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, 
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 



O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it 

blows, 
It calls but the warders that guard thy 

repose ; 
Their bows would be bended, their blades 

would be red, 
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy 

bed. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 

in. 

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will 
come, 

When thy sleep shall be broken by trum- 
pet and drum ; 

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest 
while you may, 

For strife comes with manhood, and wak- 
ing with day. 

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. 



gangs ai gleg gterriliea. 

FROM GUY MANNERING. 
1815. 

"TWIST YE, TWINE YE." 

Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle shades of joy and woe, 
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife, 
In the thread of human life. 

While the mystic twist is spinning, 
And the infant's life beginning, 
Dimly seen through twilight bending, 
Lo, what varied shapes attending ! 

Passions wild, and follies vain, 
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; 
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, 
In the magic dance appear. 

Now they wax, and now they dwindle, 
Whirling with the whirling spindle. 
Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, 
Mingle human bliss and woe. 

Vol. i, Chap. iii. 

THE DYING GIPSY'S DIRGE. 

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, 
Wrestling thus with earth and clay? 
From the body pass away ; — 

Hark ! the mass is singing. 



396 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



From thee doff thy mortal weed, 
Mary Mother be thy speed, 
Saints to help thee at thy need ; — 

Hark ! the knell is ringing. 

Fear not snow-drift driving fast, 
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ; 
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast, 
And the sleep be on thee cast 

That shall ne'er know waking. 

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, 
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, — 
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, 
Day is near the breaking. 



THE RETURN TO ULSTER. 
1816. 

Once again, — but how changed since my 

wand'rings began — 
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan 

and Bann, 
And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to 

the roar 
That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. 
Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst 

thou burn ? 
With the scenes of my youth can its 

raptures return ? 
Can I live the dear life of delusion again, 
That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd 

with my strain ? 

It was then that around me, though poor 

and unknown, 
High spells of mysterious enchantment 

were thrown ; 
The streams were of silver, of diamond 

the dew, 
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. 
I had heard of our bards, and my soul 

was on fire 
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep 

of their lyre : 
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the 

ear, 
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd 

and clear. 

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, 
And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase 

and the hall ; 
And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce 

from on high, 
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest 

is nigh. 



It seem'd that the harp of green Erin 

once more 
Could renew all the glories she boasted of 

yore. — 
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, 

should'st thou burn ? 
They were days of delusion, and cannot 

return. 

But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid 

who stood by, 
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from 

mine eye ? 
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, 
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted 

to dew ? 
Oh! would it had been so, — Oh! would 

that her eye, 
Had been but a star-glance that shot 

through the sky, 
And her voice that was moulded to 

melody's thrill, 
Had been but a zephyr, that sigh'd and 

wa^g still! 

Oh ! would it had been so, — not then this 

poor heart 
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to 

part ; 
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care, 
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one 

to share. 
Not then had I said, when life's summer 

was done, 
And the hours of her autumn were fast 

speeding on, 
' ' Take the fame and the riches ye brought 

in your train, 
And restore me the dream of my spring- 
tide again." 



JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

Air — A Border Melody. 

1816. 

The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. 
The others were written for Mr. Campbell's 
Albyn's Anthology. 

I. 

' ' Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? 

Why weep ye by the tide ? 
I'll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride. 
And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen " — 



MISCELLANEOUS P0EM6. 



397 



But aye she loot the tears down fa' 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 
II. 

" Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 

And dry that cheek so pale ; 
Young Frank is chief of Errington, 

And lord of Langley-dale ; 
His step is first in peaceful ha', 

His sword in battle keen"— 
But aye she loot the tears down fa 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

in. 
" A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 

Nor braid to bind your hair ; 
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; 
And you, the foremost o' them a', 

Shall ride our forest queen"— 
But aye she loot the tears down fa' 

For Jock of Hazeldean. 

IV. 

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, 

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; 
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ; 

The ladie was not seen ! 
She's o'er the Border, and awa' 

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. 



PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.* 

AlR — " Piobair of Domiil Dhuidh." 

1816. 

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to 
Clan Macdonald, and supposed to refer to the 
expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, 
launched from the Isles with a considerable 
force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy 
defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and 
Caithness, though at the head of an army 
superior to his own. The words of the set, 
theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations 
are applied, run this in Gaelic : — 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd 

Dhonuil ; 
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, 

* Dhu— the Black. 



The war-pipe and the pennon are on the 
gathering place at Inverlochy. 

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Pibroch of Donuil, 
Wake thy wild voice anew, 

Summon Clan-Conuil. 
Come away, come away, 

Hark to the summons ! 
Come in your war array, 

Gentles and commons. 

Come from deep glen, and 

From mountain so rocky, 
The war-pipe and pennon 

Are at Inverlochy. 
Come every hill-plaid, and 

True heart that wears one, 
Come every steel blade, and 

Strong hand that bears one. 

Leave untended the herd, 

The flock without shelter ; 
Leave the corpse uninterr'd, 

The bride at the altar ; . 
Leave the deer, leave the steer, 

Leave nets and barges : 
Come with your fighting gear, 

Broadswords and targes. 

Come as the winds come, when 

Forests are rended, 
Come as the waves come, when 

Navies are stranded : 
Faster come, faster come, 

Faster and faster, 
Chief, vassal, page and groom, 

Tenant and master. 

Fast they come, fast they come ; 

See how they gather ! 
Wide waves the eagle plume, 

Blended with heather. 
Cast your plaids, draw your blades, 

Forward each man set ! 
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 

Knell for the onset ! 



NORA'S VOW. 

Air — Cha teid mis a ckaotdk.f 

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 

1816. 

In the original Gaelic, the Lady makes pro- 
testations that she will not go with the Red 
Earl's son, until the swan should build in the 
cliff, and the eagle in the lake — until one 

t " I will never go with him." 



398 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



mountain should change place with another, 
and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there 
is no authority for supposing that she altered 
her mind — except the vehemence of her pro- 
testation. 

I. 
Hear what Highland Nora said — 
' ' The Earlie's son I will not wed, 
Should all the race of nature die, 
And none be left but he and I. 
For all the gold, for all the gear, 
And all the lands both far and near, 
That ever valour lost or won, 
I would not wed the Earlie's son." — 

II. 
"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, 
"Are lightly made and lightly broke ; 
The heather on the mountain's height 
Begins to bloom in purple light ; 
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away 
That lustre deep from glen and brae ; 
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, 
May blithely wed the Earlie's son." — 



"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear 

breast 
May barter for the eagle's nest ; 
The Awe's fierce stream may backward 

turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn ; 
Our kilted clans, when blood is high, 
Before their foes may turn and fly ; 
But I, were all these marvels done, 
Would never wed the Earlie's son." 

IV. 

Still in the water-lily's shade 

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever, , » 

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river; 

To shun the clash of foeman's steel, 

No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel ; 

But Nora's heart is lost and won, 

— She's wedded to the Earlie's son ! 



MACGREGOR'S GATHERING. 

Air — Thaiti a Grigalach.* 

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. 

1816. 

These verses are adapted to a very wild, yet 
lively gathering-tune, used by the Mac- 
Gregors. The severe treatment of this Clan, 
their outlawry, and the proscription of their 
very name, are alluded to in the Ballad. 

* " The MacGregor is come." 



The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on 

the brae, 
And the Clan has a name that is nameless 
by day ; 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! 
Gather, gather, gather, &c. 

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs 

we drew, 
Must be heard but by night in our venge- 
ful haloo ! 
Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Griga- 
lach! 
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c. 

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn 

and her towers, 
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are 
ours; 
We're landless, landless, landless, Gri- 
galach ! 
Landless, landless, landless, &c. 

But doom'd and ""devoted by vassal and 

lord, 
Macgregor has still both his heart and his 
sword ! 
Then courage, courage, courage, Gri- 
galach ! 
Courage, courage, courage, &c. 

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with 

beagles, 
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh 
to the eagles ! 
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, 

Grigalach ! 
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. 

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam 

on the river, 
Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for 
ever! 
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Gri- 
galach, 
Come then, come then, come then, &c. 

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the 
steed shall career, 

O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley 
shall steer, 

And the rocks of Craig-Royston like 
icicles melt, 

Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our ven- 
geance unfelt ! 
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! 
Gather, gather, gather, 8$c. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



399 



VERSES. 

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED 
TO HAYDN'S AIR, 

' ' God Save the Emperor Francis" 

AND SUNG BY A SELECT BAND AFTER 

THE DINNER GIVEN BY THE LORD 

PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE 

GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA, 

AND HIS SUITE. 

I9TH dece'mber 18 16. 

God protect brave Alexander, 

Heaven defend the noble Czar, 
Mighty Russia's high Commander, 

First in Europe's banded war ! 
For the realms he did deliver 

From the tyrant overthrown, 
Thou, of every good the Giver, 

Grant him long to bless his own ! 
Bless him, 'mid his land's disaster, 

For her rights who battled brave, 
Of the land of foemen master, 

Bless him who their wrongs forgave ! 

O'er his just resentment victor, 

Victor over Europe's foes, 
Late and long supreme director, 

Grant in peace his reign may close ! 
Hail ! then, hail ! illustrious stranger ! 

Welcome to our mountain strand ! 
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger, 

Link us with thy native land. 
Freemen's force, or false beguiling, 

Shall that union ne'er divide, 
Hand in hand while peace is smiling, 

And in battle side by side.* 



£onp from % gmtixjttarg. 
1816. 

TIME. 

" Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, 
Thou aged carle so stern and gray ? 

Dost thou its former pride recall, 
Or ponder how it pass'd away!" — 

"Know'st thou not me!" the Deep Voice 
cried ; 

"So long enjoy'd, so oft misused — 
Alternate, in thy fickle pride, 

Desired, neglected, and accused! 



" Before my breath, like blazing flax, 
Man and his marvels pass away ! 

And changing empires wane and wax, 
Are founded, flourish, and decay. 

" Redeem mine hours— the space is brief- 
While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, 

And measureless thy joy or grief, 

When Time and thou shalt part for 
ever!" — Chap. x. 

ELSPETH'S BALLAD. 

The herring loves the merry moon-light, 

The mackerel loves the wind, 
But the oyster loves the dredging sang, 

For they come of a gentle kind. 

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and 
carle, 

And listen great and sma', 
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl 

That fought on the red Harlaw. 

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, 

And doun the Don and a', 
And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be 

For the sair field of Harlaw. 

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, 
They hae bridled a hundred black, 

With a chafron of steel on each horse's 
head, 
And a good knight upon his back. 

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, 

A mile but barely ten, 
When Donald came branking down the 
brae 

Wi' twenty thousand men. 

Their tartans they were waving wide, 
Their glaives were glancing clear, 

The pibrochs rung frae side to side, 
Would deafen ye to hear. 

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, 

That Highland host to see : 
" Now here a knight that's stout and good 

May prove a jeopardie : 

"What would'st thou do, my squire so 

gay, 
That rides beside my reyne, — 
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, 
And I were Roland Cheyne? 

" To turn the rein were sin and shame, 
To fight were wondrous peril, — 

What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, 
Were ve Glenallan's Ear!?" — 



4oo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, 
And ye were Roland Cheyne, 

The spur should be in my horse's side, 
And the bridle upon his mane. 

" If they hae twenty thousand blades, 

And we twice ten times ten, 
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, 

And we are mail-clad men. 

" My horse shall ride through ranks sae 
rude, 

As through the moorland fern, — 
Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude 

Grow cauld for Highland kerne." 



He turn'd him right and round again, 
Said, Scorn na at my mither; 

Light loves I may get mony a ane, 
But minnie ne'er anither. — Chap. xl. 

MOTTOES 

IN THE ANTIQUARY. 

I knew Anselmo. He was shrewd and 

prudent, 
Wisdom and cunning had their shares of 

him ; 
But he was shrewish as a wayward child, 
And pleased again by toys which child- 
hood please ; 
As — book of fables graced with print of 

wood, 
Or else the jingling of a rusty medal, 
Or the rare melody of some old ditty, 
That first was sung to please King Pepin's 
cradle. 

CHAP. IX. 

" Be brave," she cried, " you yet may be 

our guest, 
Our haunted room was ever held the best : 
If, then, your valour can the fight sustain 
Of rustling curtains, and the clinking chain ; 
If your courageous tongue have powers to 

talk, 
When round your bed the horrid ghost 

shall walk, 
If you dare ask it why it leaves its tomb, 
I'll see your sheets well air'd, and show 

the room." — True Story. 

CHAP. XI. 

Sometimes he thinks that Heaven this 

vision sent, 
And order'd all the pageants as they went ; 



Sometimes that only 'twas wild Fancy's 

play,— 
The loose and scatter'd relics of the day. 

CHAP. XII. 

Beggar! — the only freemen of your Com- 
monwealth ! 
Free above Scot-free, that observe no laws, 
Obey no governor, use no religion 
But what they draw from their own an- 
cient customs, 
Or constitute themselves, yet they are no 
rebels. — Brome. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Here has been such a stormy encounter, 
Betwixt my cousin Captain and this 

soldier, 
About I know not what — nothing, indeed ; 
Competitions, degrees, and comparatives 
Of soldiership ! — A Faire Quarrel. 

CHAP. XX. 

If you fail honour here, 

Never presume to serve her any more ; 
Bid farewell to the integrity of arms, 
And the honourable name of soldier 
Fall from you, like a shiver'd wreath of 

laurel 
By thunder struck from a desertlesse fore- 
head. — A Faire Quarrel. 

CHAP. XXI. 

The Lord Abbot had a soul 

Subtile and quick, and searching as the 

fire: 
By magic stairs he went as deep as hell, 
And if in devils' possession gold be kept, 
He brought some sure from thence— 'tis 

hid in caves, 
Known, save to me, to none. 

The Wonder of a Kingdome. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Many great ones 

Would part with half their states, to have 

the plan 
And credit to beg in the first style. 

Beggar's Bush. 

CHAP. XXX. 
Who is he? — One that for the lack of land 
Shall fight upon the water — he hath chal- 
lenged 
Formerly the grand whale : and by his 
titles 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



401 



Of Leviathan, Behemoth, and so forth. 
He tilted with a sword-fish — Marry, sir, 
Th' aquatic had the best— the argument 
Still galls our champion's breech. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Tell me not of it, friend — when the young 

weep, 
Their tears are lukewarm brine; — from 

our old eyes 
Sorrow falls down like hail-drops of the 

North, 
Chilling the furrows of our wither'd cheeks, 
Cold as our hopes, and harden' d as our 

feeling — 
Theirs, as they fall, sink sightless — ours 

recoil, 
Heap the fair plain, and bleaken all before 

us.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Remorse — she ne'er forsakes us ! — 

A bloodhound stanch — she tracks our 

rapid step 
Through the wild labyrinth of youthful 

frenzy, 
Unheard, perchance, until old age hath 

tamed us ; 
Then in our lair, when Time hath chill'd 

our joints, 
And maim'd our hope of combat, or of 

flight, 
We hear her deep-mouth'd bay, announc- 
ing all 
Of wrath and woe and punishment that 

bides us.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

Still in his dead hand clench'd remain the 

strings 
That thrill his father's heart— e'en as the 

limb, 
Lopp'd off and laid in grave, retains, they 

tell us, 
Strange commerce with the mutilated 

stump, 
Whose nerves are twinging still in maim'd 

existence. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Life, with you, 

Glows in the brain and dances in the 

arteries ; 
'Tis like the wine some joyous guest hath 

quaft'd, 
That glads the heart and elevates the 

fancy : — 



Mine is the poor residuum of the cup, 
Vapid, and dull, and tasteless, only soiling 
With its base dregs the vessel that contains 
it.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 

Yesl I love Justice well — as well as you 

do — 
But, since the good dame's blind, she shall 

excuse me, 
If, time and reason fitting, I prove dumb ; — 
The breath I utter now shall be no means 
To take away from me my breath in 

future. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Well, well, at worst, 'tis neither theft nor 

coinage, 
Granting I knew all that you charge me 

with. 
What, tho' the tomb hath borne a second 

birth, 
And given the wealth to one that knew not 

on't, 
Yet fair exchange was never robbery, 
Far less pure bounty. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 

Life ebbs from such old age, unmark'd and 

silent, 
As the slow neap-tide leaves yon stranded 

galley- 
Late she rock'd merrily at the least impulse 
That wind or wave could give; but now 

her keel 
Is settling on the sand, her mast has ta'en 
An angle with the sky, from which it shifts 

not. 
Each wave receding shakes her less and 

less, 
Till, bedded on the strand, she shall remain 
Useless as motionless. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XLI. 

So, while the Goose, of whom the fable 

told, 
Incumbent, brooded o'er her eggs of gold, 
With hand outstretch'd, impatient to de- 
stroy, 
Stole on her secret nest the cruel Boy, 
Whose gripe rapacious changed her splen- 
did dream, 
For wings vain fluttering, and for dying 
scream. 

The Loves of the Sea- Weeds. 

CHAP. XLII. 

Let those go see who will — I like it not — 
For, say he was a slave to rank and pomp, 
26 



402 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



And all the nothings he is now divorced 

from 
By the hard doom of stern necessity ; 
Yet is it sad to mark his alter'd brow, 
Where Vanity adjusts her flimsy veil 
O'er the deep wrinkles of repentant An- 
guish.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XLIII. 

Fortune, you say, flies from us— She but 

circles, * 

Like the fleet sea-bird round the fowler's 

skiff,— 
Lost in the mist one moment, and the next 
Brushing the white sail with her whiter wing, 
As if to court the aim. — Experience 

watches, 
And has her on the wheel. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XLIV. 

Nay, if she love me not, I care not for her : 
Shall I look pale because the maiden 

blooms? 
Or sigh because she smiles — and smiles on 

others? 
Not I, by Heaven ! — I hold my peace too 

dear, 
To let it, like the plume upon her cap, 
Shake at each nod that her caprice shall 

dictate.— Old Play. 



Jfrom t\t §hck gfoarf. 
1816. 

CHAP. XVI. 

'TWAS time and griefs 

That framed him thus: Time, with his 

fairer hand, 
Offering the fortunes of his former days, 
The former man may make him — Bring us 

to him, 
And chance it as it may. — Old Play. 



$tam ®fo gptorialitg* 
1816. 

MAJOR BELLENDEN'S SONG. 

And what though winter will pinch severe 
Through locks of gray and a cloak that's 
old, 

Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier, 
For a cup of sack shall fence the cold. 



For time will rust the brightest blade, 
And years will break the strongest bow ; 

Was never wight so starkly made, 
But time and years would overthrow ! 
Chap. xix. 

VERSES FOUND IN BOTHWELL'S 
POCKET-BOOK. 

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright. 
As in that well-remember'd night, 
When first thy mystic braid was wove, 
And first my Agnes whisper'd love. 

Since then how often hast thou press'd 
The torrid zone of this wild breast, 
Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell 
With the first sin which peopled hell. 
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean, 
Each throb the earthquake's wild commo- 
tion ! — 
O, if such clime thou canst endure, 
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure, 
What conquest o'er each erring thought 
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought I 
I had not wander' d wild and wide. 
With such an angel for my guide ; 
Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove 

me, 
If she had lived, and lived to love me. 

Not then this world's wild joys had been 
To me one savage hunting scene, 
My sole delight the headlong race, 
And frantic hurry of the chase ; 
To start, pursue, and bring to bay, 
Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, 
Then — from the carcass turn away 1 
Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, 
And soothed each wound which pride in- 
flamed ! 
Yes, God and man might now approve me, 
If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me. 
Chap, xxiii. 

MOTTOES 

FROM OLD MORTALITY. 
CHAP. XIV. 

My hounds may a' rin masterless, 
My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, 

My lord may grip my vassal lands, 
For there again maun I never be ! 

Old Ballad. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife ! 
To all the sensual world proclaim, 



Miscellaneous poems. 



403 



One crowded hour of glorious life 
Is worth an age without a name. 

Anonymous. 



THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS ; 

OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN. 

1 8 17. 

I. 

Oh for a glance of that gay Muse's eye, 
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing 

tale, 
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly, 
When Giam Battista bade her vision 

hail !— 
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail 
Given by the natives of that land ca- 
norous ; 
Italian license loves to leap the pale, 
We Britons have the fear of shame be- 
fore us, 
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be 
decorous. 

11. 
In the far eastern clime, no great while 

since, 
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince, 
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their 

round, 
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground ; 
Whose ears received the same unvaried 

phrase, 
' ' Sultaun ! thy vassal hears, and he obeys !" 
All have their tastes — this may the fancy 

strike 
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur 

like; 
For me, I love the honest heart and warm 
Of Monarch who can amble round his farm, 
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys, 
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys — 
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass, 
Exchanging with his subjects glance and 

glass; 
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay, 
Keep up the jest, and mingle in the lay — 
Such Monarchs best our free-born hu- 
mours suit, 
But Despots must be stately, stern, and 
mute. 

in. 
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway — 
And where's Serendib? may some critic 
say. — 



Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the 
chart, 

Scare not my Pegasus before I start ! 

If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap, 

The isle laid down in Captain Sinbad's 
map, — 

Famed mariner! whose merciless narra- 
tions 

Drove every friend and kinsman out of 
patience, 

Till, fain to find a guest who thought them 
shorter, 

He deign'd to tell them over to a porter — 

The last edition see, by Long, and Co., 

Rees, Hurst, .and Orme, our fathers in the 
Row. 

IV. 

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic- 
tion — 
This Sultaun , whether lacking contradic- 
tion — 
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses, 
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,. 
— Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures 
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in 

yours,) 
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome 

bitter, 
Or cordial smooth for prince's palate 

fitter— 
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams 
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild 

themes 
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft, 
I wot not — but the Sultaun never laugh'd, 
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy, 
That scorn'd all remedy — profane or holy; 
In his long list of melancholies, mad, 
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so 
bad.* 

v. 

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and 

tried, 
As e'er scrawl' d jargon in a darken'd 

room ; 
With heedful glance the Sultaun' s tongue 

they eyed, 
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where 

beside, 
And then in solemn accent spoke their 

doom. 

" His Majesty is very far from well." 
Then each to work with his specific fell : 



* See Burton, Ana(o?ny of Melancholy. 



404 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought 
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut, 
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, 
Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily. 
More and yet more in deep array appear, 
And some the front assail, and some the 

rear ; 
Their remedies to reinforce and vary, 
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary ; 
Till the tired Monarch, though of words 

grown chary, 
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless 

labour, 
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. 
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer 

speeches 
To rid the palace of those learned leeches. 

VI. 

Then was the council call'd — by their ad- 
vice, 
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and 
nice, 
And sought to shift it off from their own 
shoulders,) 
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent, 
To call a sort of Eastern Parliament 

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders — 
Such have the Persians at this very day, 
My gallant Malcolm calls them cou- 

roultai; — 
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song 
That to Serendib the same forms belong, — 
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me 
if I'm wrong. 

VII. 

The Omrahs, each with hand on scymitar, 
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for 

war — 
"The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath 
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of 

death ; 
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle, 
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout 

of battle ! 
This dreary cloud that dims our sove- 
reign's day, 
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away, 
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser 

round, 
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the 

ground. 
Each noble pants to own the glorious 

summons — 
And for the charges — Lo! your faithful 

Commons 1 " 



The Riots who attended in their places 
(Serendib language calls a farmer Riot) 

Look'd ruefully in one another's faces, 
From this oration augurmg much dis- 
quiet, 

Double assessment, forage, and free quar- 
ters; 

And fearing these as China-men the Tar- 
tars, 

Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the 
mousers, 

Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers. 

VIII. 

And next came forth the reverend Convo- 
cation, 
Bald heads, white beards, and many a 

turban green, 
Imaum and Mollah there of every station, 
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were 

seen. 
Their votes were various — some advised a 

Mosque 
With fitting revenues should be erected, 
With seemly gardens and with gay 

Kiosque, 
To recreate a band of priests selected ; 
Others opined that through the realms a 

dole 
Be made to holy men, whose prayers 

might profit 
The Sultaun *s weal in body and in soul. 
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik 

Ul-Sofit, 
More closely touch'd the point: — "Thy 

studious mood," 
Quoth he, "O Prince! hath thicken'd all 

thy blood, 
And dull'd thy brain with labour beyond 

measure ; 
Wherefore relax a space and take thy 

pleasure. 
And toy with beauty, or tell o'er thy 

treasure ; 
From all the cares of state, my Liege, 

enlarge thee, 
And leave the burden to thy faithful 

clergy." 



These counsels sage availed not a whit, 
And so the patient (as is not uncom- 
mon « 
Where grave physicians lose their time 
and wit) 
Resolved to take advice of an old 
woman ;• 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



405 



His mother she, a dame who once was 

beauteous, 
And still was call'd so by each subject 

duteous. 
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest, 

Or only made believe, I cannot say — 
But she profess'd to cure disease the 

sternest, 
By dint of magic amulet or lay ; 
And, when all other skill in vain was shown, 
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own. 

x. 

" Sympathia magica hath wonders done," 
(Thus did old Fcttima bespeak her son,) 
" It works upon the fibres and the pores, 
And thus, insensibly, our health restores, 
And it must help us here.— -Thou must 

endure 
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure. 
Search land and sea, and get, where'er 

you can, 
The inmost vesture of a happy man, 
I mean his shirt, my son ; which, taken 

warm 
And fresh from off his back, shall chase 

your harm, 
Bid every current of your veins rejoice, 
And your dull heart leap light as shep- 
herd-boy's." 
Such was the counsel from his mother 

came ; — 
I know not if she had some under-game, 
As Doctors have, who bid their patients 

roam 
And live abroad, when sure to die at 

home; 
Or if she thought, that, somehow or 

another, 
Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen- 
Mother ; 
But, says the Chronicle, (who will go 

look it,) 
That such was her advice — the Sultaun 
took it. 

XI. 

All are on board — the Sultaun and his 

train, 
In gilded galley prompt to plough the 

main. 
The old Rais* was the first who ques- 

tion'd, " Whither?" 
They paused — "Arabia," thought the 

pensive Prince, 



* Sea captain. 



"Was call'd The Happy many ages 

since — 
For Mokha, Rais." — And they came 

safely thither. 
But not in Araby, with all her balm, 
Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm, 
Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, 
Could there the step of happiness be 

traced. 
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her 

smile, 
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant 

Nile: 
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he 

quaff 'd, 
But vanish' d from him with the ended 

draught. 

XII. 

"Enough of turbans," said the weary 

King, 
"These dolimans of ours are not the 

thing ; 
Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and 

cap, I 
Incline to think some of them must be 

happy ; 
At least, they have as fair a cause as any 

can, 
They drink good wine and keep no 

Ramazan. 
Then northward, ho ! " — The vessel cuts 

the sea, 
And fair Italia lies upon her lee. — 
But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd 
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world, 
Long from her throne of domination 

tumbled, 
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely 

humbled ; 
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, 

and lean, 
And was not half the man he once had been. 
"While these the priest and those the 

noble fleeces, 
Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn 

to pieces. 
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, 
And the Great Devil is rending toe and 

heel 
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, 
We think she dwells with one Giovanni 

Bulli ; 
A tramontane, a heretic, — the buck, 
Poffaredio ! still has all the luck ; 
By land or ocean never strikes his flag — 
And then — a perfect walking money-bag." 



406 



SCOTT'S POE TIC A L WORKS, 



Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's 

abode, 
But first took France — it lay upon the 

road. 

XIII. 

Monsieur Baboon, after much late com- 
motion, 
Was agitated like a settling ocean, 
Quite out of sorts, and could not tell 

what ail'd him, 
Only the glory of his house had fail'd 

him ; 
Besides, some tumours on his noddle 

biding, 
Gave indication of a recent hiding. 
Our Prince, though Sultauns of such 

things are heedless, 
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless 
To ask, if at that moment he was happy. 
And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme 

ilfaut, a 
Loud voice muster'd up, for " Vive le 

Roi!" 
Then whisper'd, "Ave you any news 

of Nappy?" 
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross 

question, — 
"Pray, can you tell me aught of one 

John Bull, 
That dwells somewhere beyond your 

herring-pool?" 
The query seem'd of difficult digestion, 
The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and 

took his snuff, 
And found his whole good-breeding scarce 

enough. 

XIV. 
Twitching his visage into as many puckers 
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers, 
(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and 

lawn, 
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn,) 
Replied the Frenchman, after a brief 

pause, 
"Jean Bool! — I vas not know him — Yes, 

I vas — 
I vas remember dat, von year or two, 
I saw him at von place call'd Vaterloo — 
Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu, 
Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendezvous ? 
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun, 
Rogue I no like— dey call him Vellington." 
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his 

fret, 
So Solimaun took leave, and cross'd the 

strait. 



John Bull was in his very worst of moods, 
"Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ; 
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw, 
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo. 
His wars were ended, and the victory won, 
But then, 'twas reckoning-day with honest 

John; 
And authors vouch, 'twas still this Wor- • 

thy's way, 
' ' Never to grumble till he came to pay ; 
And then he always thinks, his temper's 

such, 
The work too little, and the pay too much." 
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and 

hearty, 
That when his mortal foe was on the floor, 
And past the power to harm his quiet more, 
Poor John had well-nigh wept for Bona- 
parte ! 
Such was the wight whom Solimaun 

salam'd, — 
"And who are you, "John answer'd, "and 

bed— d!" 



"A stranger, come to see the happiest 
man, — 

So, signior, all avouch, — in Frangistan." — 

' ' Happy ? my tenants breaking on my 
hand; 

Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my 
land; 

Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and 
moths 

The sole consumers of my good broad- 
cloths — 

Happy? — Why, cursed war and racking 
tax 

Have left us scarcely raiment to our 
backs." — 

" In that case, signior, I may take my 
leave ; 

I came to ask a favour — but I grieve" 

" Favour?" said John, and eyed the Sul- 
taun hard, 

' ' It's my belief you come to break the 
yard! — 

But, stay, you look like some poor foreign 
sinner, — 

Take that to buy yourself a shirt and din- 
ner." — 

With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head ; 

But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, 

" Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ; 

A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



407 



Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you 

well." — 
"Kiss and bed — d," quoth John, "and 

go to hell I" 

XVII. 

Next door to John there dwelt his sister 

Peg, 
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg 
When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, 

soberer now, 
She doucely span her flax and milk'd her 

cow. 
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, 
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, 
Yet once a-month her house was partly 

swept, 
And once a-week a plenteous board she 

kept. 
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her 

claws 
And teeth, of yore, on slender provo- 
cation, 
She now was grown amenable to laws, 

A quiet soul as any in the nation ; 
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys 
Was in old songs she sang to please her 

boys. 
John Bull, whom, in their years of early 

strife, 
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, 
Now found the woman, as he said, a 

neighbour, 
Who look'd to the main chance, declined 

no labour, 
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern 

jargon, 
And was d — d close in making of a bar- 
gain. 

XVIII. 

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg, 
And with decorum curtsy 'd sister Peg. 
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or 

two, 
And guess'd at once with whom she had 

to do.) 
She bade him "Sit into the fire," and took 
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from 

the nook ; 
Ask'd him ' ' about the news from Eastern 

parts ; 
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland 

hearts ! 
If peace brought down the price of tea 

and pepper, 
And if the nitmugs were grown ony 

cheaper ;— 



Were there nae sfeerings of our Mungo 

Park— 
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark ! 
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spin- 

nin', 
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen." 

XIX. 

Then up got Peg, and round the house 

'gan scuttle 
In search of goods her customer to nail, 
Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely 

throttle, 
Andhollo'd — " Ma'am, that is not what 

I ail. 
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug 

glen?" 
"Happy?" said Peg; "What for d'ye 

want to ken? 
Besides, just think upon thisby-gane year, 
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the 

pleugh." — 
" What say you to the present?" — " Meal's 

sae dear, 
To mak' their brose my bairns have 

scarce aneugh." — 
" The devil take the shirt," said Solimaun, 
" I think my quest will end as it began. — 
Farewell, ma'am ; nay. no ceremony, I 

beg" 

"Ye'll no be for the linen then?" said 

Peg. 

XX. 
Now, for the land of verdant Erin, 
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering, 
The Emerald Isle, where honest Paddy 

dwells, 
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells. 
For a long space had John, with words 

of thunder, 
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept 

Paddy under, 
Till the poor lad, like boy that's flogg'd 

unduly, 
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly. 
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow, 
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow ; 
His landlord, and of middle-men two 

brace, 
Had screw' d his rent up to the starving- 
place ; 
His garment was a top-coat, and an old 

one, 
His meal was a potato, and a cold one ; 
But still for fun or frolic, and all that, 
In the round world was not the match of 

Pau 



The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, 
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day : 
When mass is ended, and his load of sins 
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from 

her binns 
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, 
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and 

spirit ! 
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, 
And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. 
" By Mahomet," said Sultaun Solimaun, 
"That ragged fellow is our very man ! 
Rush in and seize him— do not do him 

hurt, 
But, will he nillhe, let me have his shirt." — 

XXII. 

Shilela their plan was well-nigh after baulk- 
ing, 
(Much less provocation will set it a-walk- 

ing.) 
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foil'd 

Paddy Whack ; 
They seized, and they ftoor'd, and they 

stripp'd him — Alack ! 
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not a shirt to 

his back ! ! ! 
And the King, disappointed, with sorrow 

and shame, 
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. 



THE SUN UPON THE WEIRD- 
LAW HILL. 
1817. 

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, 

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; 
The westland wind is hush and still, 

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. 
Yet not the landscape to mine eye 

Bears those bright hues that once it 
bore; 
Though evening, with her richest dye, 

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. 

With listless look along the plain, 

I see Tweed's silver current glide, 
And coldly mark the holy fane 

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. 
The quiet lake, the balmy air. 

The hill, the stream, the tower, the 
tree, — 
Are they still such as once they were ? 

Oris the dreary change in me? 



Alas, the warp'd and broken board, 

How can it bear the painter's dye ! 
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, 

How to the minstrel's skill reply ! 
To aching eyes each landscape lowers, 

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ; 
And Araby's or Eden's bowers 

Were barren as this moorland hill. 



THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S 

MARCH. 

Am—"Ymdaith Mionge." 

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 

WELSH MELODIES. 

1817. 

Ethelfrid or Olfkid, King of Northum- 
berland, having besieged Chester in 613, and 
Brockmael, a British Prince, advancing to 
relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring 
Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, 
to pray for the success of their countrymen. 
But the British being totally defeated, the 
heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and 
destroyed their monastery. The tune to which 
these verses are adapted is called the Monks' 
March, and is supposed to have been played at 
their ill-omened procession. 

When the heathen trumpet's clang " 
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, 
Veiled nun and friar gray 
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye ; 
High their holy anthem sounds, 
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds, 
Floating down the sylvan Dee, 

O miserere, Domine I 

On the long procession goes, 
Glory round their crosses glows, 
And the Virgin-mother mild 
In their peaceful banner smiled : 
Who could think such saintly band 
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand? 
Such was the Divine decree, 

O miserere, Domine I 

Bands that masses only sung, 
Hands that censers only swung, 
Met the northern bow and bill, 
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill : 
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, 
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, 
Woe to Saxon cruelty, 

O miserere, Domine / 

Weltering amid warriors slain, 
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



409 



Slaughter'd down by heathen blade, 
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid ; 
Word of parting rest unspoke, 
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ; 
For their souls for charity, 

Sing, O miserere, Dominel 

Bangor! o'er the murder wail! 
Long thy ruins told the tale ; 
Shatter'd towers and broken arch 
Long recall'd the woeful march:* 
On thy shrine no tapers burn, 
Never shall thy priests return ; 
The pilgrim sighs, and sings for thee, 
O miserere, Domine / 



gloitoes from gob fog. 

CHAP. X. 
In the wide pile, by others heeded not, 
Hers was one sacred solitary spot, 
Whose gloomy aisles and bending shelves 

contain, 
For moral hunger food, and cures for 

moral pain. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XIII. 
Dire was his thought, who first in poison 

steep'd 
The weapon form'd for slaughter — direr 

his, 
And worthier of damnation, who instill'd 
The mortal venom in the social cup, 
To fill the veins with death instead of 

life. — A nonymous. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's 

the place 
Which men (for being poor) are sent to 

starve in, — 
Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. 
Within these walls, stifled by damp and 

stench, 
Doth Hope's fair torch expire : and at the 

snuff, 
Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and 

wayward, 
The desperate revelries of wild despair, 
Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to 

deeds 

* In William of Malmsbury's time the ruins 
of Bangor still attested the cruelty of the 
Northumbrians. 



That the poor captive would have died ere 
practised, 

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condi- 
tion. — The Prison, Scene iii. Act i. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Far as the eye could reach no tree was 

seen, 
Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively 

green ; 
No birds, except as birds of passage, flew ; 
No bee was heard to hum, no dove to coo ; 
No streams, as amber smooth, as amber 

clear, 
Were seen to glide, or heard to warble 

here. — Prophecy of Famine. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

"Woe to the vanquish'd ! " was stern 

Brenno's word, 
When sunk proud Rome beneath the 

Gallic sword — 
"Woe to the vanquish'd!" when his 

massive blade 
Bore down the scale against her ransom 

weigh' d, 
And on thejfield of foughten battle still, 
Who knows no limit save the victor's 

will.— The Gaulliad. 

CHAP, xxxii. • 
And be he safe restored ere evening set, 
Or, if there's vengeance in an injured heart, 
And power to wreak it in an armed hand, 
Your land shall ache for 't. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVI. 

Farewell to the land where the clouds love 
to rest. 

Like the shroud of the dead on the moun- 
tain's cold breast ; 

To the cataract's roar where the eagles 
reply, 

And the lake her lone bosom expands to 
the sky. 



MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL 
ADDRESS, 

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH 
STAGE. 

1817. 

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's 

sound, 
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws 

the ground — 



4io 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, 
And longs to rush on the embattled lines, 
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, 
Can scarce sustain to think our parting 

near; 
To think my scenic hour for ever past, 
And that these valued plaudits are my last. 
Why should we part, while still some 

powers remain, 
That in your service strive not yet in 

vain? 
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth 

supply, 
And sense of duty fire the fading eye ; 
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued 
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ? 
Ah no ! — the taper, wearing to its close, 
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ; 
But all too soon the transient gleam is 

past — 
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last ; 
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage 
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of 

age. 
Yes! it were poor, remembering what 1 

was, 
To live a pensioner on your applause, 
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry, 
And take, as alms, the praise I once could 

buy; 
Till every sneering youth around inquires, 
"Is this the man who once could please 

our sires?" 
And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful 

mien, 
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene. 
This must not be; — and higher duties 

crave 
Some space between the theatre and the 

grave, 
That like the Roman in the Capitol, 
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall : 
My life's brief act in public service flown, 
The last, the closing scene, must be my 

own. 

Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well- 
graced parts 
May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts, 
Not quite to be forgotten, even when 
You look on better actors, younger men : 
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt 
Of old remembrance, how shall mine for- 
get— 
O, how forget ! — how oft I hither came 
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with 
fame! 



How oft around your circle this weak hand 
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic 

wand, 
Till the full burst of inspiration came, 
And I have felt, and you have fann'd the 

flame ! 
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign en- 
dures, 
Those hours must live — and all their 
charms are yours. 

O favour'd Land, renown'd for arts and 

arms, 
For manly talent, and for female charms, 
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking 

line, 
What fervent benedictions now were thine ! 
But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung, 
When e'en your praise falls faltering from 

my tongue; 
And all that you can hear, or I can tell, 
Is— Friends and Patrons, hail ! and FARE 

YOU well! 



LINES, 



WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH". 
1817. 

When the lone pilgrim views afar 
The shrine that is his guiding star, 
With awe his footsteps print the road 
Which the loved saint of yore has trod. 
As near he draws, and yet more near, 
His dim eye sparkles with a tear ; 
The Gothic fane's unwonted show, 
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow, 
Oppress his soul ; while they delight 
And chasten rapture with affright. 
No longer dare he think his toil 
Can merit aught his patron's smile ; 
Too light appears the distant way, 
The chilly eve, the sultry day — 
All these endured no favour claim, 
But murmuring forth the sainted name, 
He lays his little offering down, 
And only deprecates a frown. 

We, too, who ply the Thespian art, 
Oft feel such bodings of the heart, 
And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, 
Dare hardly hope your favour gain'd. 
She, who from sister climes has sought 
The ancient land where Wallace fought—' 
Land long renown'd for arms and arts, 
And conquering eyes and dauntless 
hearts — 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



411 



She, as the flutterings here avow, 
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now ; 
Yet sure on Caledonian plain 
The stranger never sued in vain. 
'Tis yours the hospitable task 
To g-'ve the applause she dare not ask ; 
And they who bid the pilgrim speed, 
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed. 



EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL. 

spoken by mrs. henry siddons, 

Feb. 16, 1818. 

A CAT of yore (or else old ^Esop lied) 
Was changed into a fair and blooming 

bride, 
But spied a mouse upon her marriage-day, 
Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her 

prey ; 
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you 

saw, 
Threw off poor me, and pounced upon 

papa. 
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made 

loose, 
He twisted round my sire's the literal noose. 
Such are the fruits of our dramatic labour 
Since the New Jail became our next-door 

neighbour. 



your 



Yes, times are changed ; for, in 

fathers' age, 
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage ; 
However high advanced by future fate, 
There stands the bench {points to the Pit) 

that first received their weight. 
The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see, 
Doom though unwigg'd, and plead with- 
out a fee. 

But now, astounding each poor mimic elf, 

Instead of lawyers comes the law herself ; 

Tremendous neighbour on our right she 
dwells, 

Builds high her towers, and excavates her 
cells ; 

While on the left she agitates the town, 

With the tempestuous question, Up or 
down ? 

'Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we, 

Law's final end, and law's uncertainty. 

But soft! who lives at Rome the Pope 
must flatter, 

And jails and lawsuits are no jesting mat- 
ter. 



Then— just farewell ! We wait with serious 

awe 
Till your applause orcensure gives the law. 
Trusting our humble efforts may assure 

ye, 

We hold you Court ar^d Counsel, Judge 
and Jury. 



MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. 

1818. 

Air—" Cha till mi tuille." 

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird 
of Macleod, is said to have composed this 
Lament when the Clan was about to depart 
upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The 
Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which 
the event verified, that he was to be slain in 
the approaching feud ; and hence the Gaelic 
words, " Cha till vti tuille; ged thillis Macleod, 
cha till Mackrimmon" " I shall never return ; 
although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon 
shall never return ! " The piece is but too 
well known, from its being the strain with 
which the emigrants from the West High- 
lands and Isles usually take leave of their 
native shore. 

MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray 

castle sallies, 
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the 

galleys ; 
Gleam war-axe and. broadsword, clang 

target and quiver, 
As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to 

Dunvegan for ever ! 
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers 

are foaming ; 
Farewell each dark glen, in which red- 
deer are roaming; 
Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, 

and river ; 
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon 

shall never ! 

" Farewell the bright clouds that on Quil- 
lan are sleeping ; 

Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that 
are weeping ; 

To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — and 
for ever — 

Mackrimmon departs, to return to you 
never ! 

The Banshee's wild voice sings the death- 
dirge before me, 

The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs 
o'er me ; 



f 



41* 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves 

shall not shiver, 
Though devoted I go — to return again 

never ! 

"Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's 

bewailing 
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are 

sailing; 
Dear land! to the shores, whence un- 
willing we sever, 
Return — return — return shall we never ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille ! 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, 
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim- 



DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. 

Air — " Malcolm Caird's come again." 

1818. 

CHORUS. 

Donald Caird's come again! 
Donald Caird's come again! 
Tell the news in brugk and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird can lilt and sing, 
Blithely dance the Highland fling, 
Drink till the gudeman be blind, 
Fleech till the gudewife be kind • 
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan, 
Or crack a pow wi' ony man ; 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 
Donald Caird's come again! 
Donald Caird's come again J 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Donald Caird can wire a maukin, 
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin', 
Leisters kipper, makes a shift 
To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift ; 
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, 
He can wank when they are sleepers ; 
Not for bountith or reward 
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. 

Donald Caird's come again! 
Donald Caird's come again / 
Gar the bagpipes hum amain, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Donald Caird can drink a gill 
Fast as hostler-wife can fill ; 



Ilka ane that sells gude liquor 
Kens how Donald bends a bicker ; 
When he's fou he's stout and saucy 
Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey ; 
Hieland chief and Lawland laird 
Maun gie room to Donald Caird ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 
Donald Caird's come again ! 
Tell the news in brugh and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again. 

Steek the amrie, lock the kist, 
Else some gear may weel be mis't ; 
Donald Caird finds orra things 
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings ; 
Dunts of Kebbuck, taits o' woo, 
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, 
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard-— 
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird ! 

Donald Caird 's come again ! 
Donald Caird s come again ! 
Dinna let the Shirra ken 
Donald Caird's come again. 

On Donald Caird the doom was stern, 
Craig to tether, legs to aim ; 
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study, 
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie ; 
Rings of aim, and bolts of steel, 
Fell like ice frae hand and heel ! 
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen, 
Donald Caird's come again ! 

Donald Caird's come again ! 
Donald Caird's come again ! 
Dinna let the jfustice ken 
Donald Caird 's come again. 



EPITAPH ON MRS. ERSKINE. 

1819. 

Plain, as her native dignity of mind, 
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd ; 
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble 

scroll, 
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul. 
But, oh ! what symbol may avail, to tell 
The kindness, wit, and sense, we loved so 

well! 
What sculpture show the broken ties of 

life, 
Here buried with the parent, friend, and 

wife ! 
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear, 
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims 

the tear 1 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



413 



Yet taught, by thy meek sufferance, to 

assume 
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the 

tomb, 
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse 

shall flow, 
And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below. 



Jfrom i\t fort of gtib-f oiljian. 
1818. 

MADGE WILDFIRE'S SONGS. 

When the gledd's in the blue cloud, 

The lavrock lies still ; 
When the hound's in the green-wood, 

The hind keeps the hill. 



O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said, 
When ye suld rise and ride ? 

There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, 
Are seeking where ye hide. 



Hey for cavaliers, ho for cavaliers, 
Dub a dub, dub a dub ; 
Have at old Beelzebub, — 

Oliver's running for fear. — 



I glance like the wildfire through country 

and town ; 
I'm seen on the causeway — I'm seen on 

the down ; 
The lightning that flashes so bright and 

so free, 
Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me. 



What did ye wi' the bridal ring — bridal 

ring— bridal ring? 
What did ye wi' your wedding ring, ye 

little cutty quean, O ? 
I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger, 
I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' 

mine, O. 



Good even, good fair moon, good even to 

thee; 
I prithee, dear moon, now show to me 
The form and the features, the speech and 

degree, 
Of the man that true lover of mine shall be. 



It is the bonny butcher lad, 
That wears the sleeves of blue, 

He sells the flesh on Saturday, 
On Friday that he slew. 



There's a bloodhound ranging Tinwald 
Wood, 

There's harness glancing sheen ; 
There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brae, 

And she sings loud between. 



Up in the air, 

On my bonnie gray mare, 

And I see, and I see, and I see her yet. 



In the bonnie cells of Bedlam, 

Ere I was ane and twenty, 
I had hempen bracelets strong, 
And merry whips, ding-dong, 
And prayers and fasting plenty. 



My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard 

Sae far ayont the sea, 
And it is but my blithsome ghaist 

That's speaking now to thee. 



I'm Madge of the country, I'm Madge of 

the town, 
And I'm Madge of the lad I am blithest 

to own — 
The Lady of Beever in diamonds may 

shine, 
But has not a heart half so lightsome as 

mine. 



I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady 
of May, 

And I lead the blithe ring round the May- 
pole to-day ; 

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so 
free 

Was never so bright or so bonnie as me. 



Our work is over — over now, 
The goodman wipes his weary brow, 
The last long wain wends slow away, 
And we are free to sport and play. 

The night comes on when sets the sun, 
And labour ends when day is done. 
When Autumn's gone, and Winter's come, 
We hold our jovial harvest-home. 



When the fight of grace is fought, — 
When the marriage vest is wrought, — 
When Faith has chased cold Doubt 

away, — 
And Hope but sickens at delay, — 

When Charity, imprison'd here, 
Longs for a more expanded sphere ; 
Doff thy robe of sin and clay ; 
Christian, rise, and come away. 



Cauld is my bed, Lord Archibald, 
And sad my sleep of sorrow : 

But thine sail be as sad and cauld, 
My fause true-love ! to-morrow. 

And weep ye not, my maidens free, 
Though death your mistress borrow ; 

For he for whom I die to-day, 
Shall die for me to-morrow. 



Proud Maisie is in the wood, 

Walking so early ; 
Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 

Singing so rarely. 

' ' Tell me, thou bonny bird, 
When shall I marry me?" — 

' ' When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry ye." 

" Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly?" — 
" The gray-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

' ' The glow-worm o'er grave and stone 

Shall light thee steady. 
The owl from the steeple sing, 

* Welcome, proud lady.' " 



Jtum t\z gribe rrf ITammjermoor. 
1819. 

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG. 

Look not thou on beauty's charming, — 
Sit thou still when kings are arming, — 
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, — 
Speak not when the people listens, — 
Stop thine ear against the singer, — 
From the red gold keep thy finger, — 
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye, 
Easy live and quiet die. — Chap. iii. 



NORMAN THE FORESTER'S 
SONG. 

The monk must arise when the matins 
ring, 
The abbot may sleep to their chime ; 
But the yeoman must start when the 
bugles sing, 
Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time. 

There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, 
There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw ; 

But a lily white doe in the garden goes, 
She's fairly worth them a'. — Chap. iii. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XIV. 

As, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound, 

Various and vague the dry leaves dance 
their round ; 

Or, from the garner-door, on aether borne. 

The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd 
corn; 

So vague, so devious, at the breath of 
heaven, 

From their fix'd aim are mortal counsels 
driven. — Anonymous. 
CHAP. XVII. 
Here is a father now, 

Will truck his daughter for a foreign ven- 
ture, 

Make her a stop-gap to some canker'd 
feud, 

Or fling her o'er, like Jonah, to the fishes, 

To appease the sea at highest. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XVIII. 

Sir, stay at home and take an old man's 

counsel ; 
Seek not to bask you by a stranger's hearth ; 
Our own blue smoke is warmer than their 

fire. 
Domestic food is wholesome, though 'tis 

homely, 
And foreign dainties poisonous, though 
tasteful. — The French Courtezan. 
CHAP. XXV. 
True-love, an' thou be true, 

Thou hast ane kittle part to play, 
For fortune, fashion, fancy, and thou 
Maun strive for many a day. 

I've kend by mony a friend's tale, 
Far better by this heart of mine, 

What time and change of fancy avail 
A true love-knot to untwine. 

Hendersoun. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



415 



CHAP. XXVI r. 
Why, now I have Dame Fortune by the 



the fault is 



forelock, 
And if she 'scapes my grasp, 

mine; 
He that hath buffeted with stern adversity, 
Best knows to shape his course to favour- 
ing breezes. — Old Play. 



Jrom % t $,t%wfo of Pottos*. 

ANNOT LYLE'S SONGS. 



Birds of omen dark and foul, 
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl, 
Leave the sick man to his dream — 
All night long he heard you scream. 
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower, 
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower, 
There to wink and mope, for, hark ! 
In the mid air sings the lark. 



Hie to moorish gills and rocks, 
Prowling wolf and wily fox, — 
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view, 
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. 
Couch your trains, and speed your flight, 
Safety parts with parting night ; 
And on distant echo borne, 
Comes the hunter's early horn. 



The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, 
Ghost-like she fades in morning beams ; 
Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay 
That scare the pilgrim on his way. — 
Quench, kelpy! quench, in fog and fen, 
Thy torch, that cheats benighted men ; 
Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, 
For Benyieglo hath seen the sun. 



IV. 

that, 



sinful, dark, and 



Wild thoughts, 

deep, 

O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, 
Pass from the slumberer's soul away, 
Like night-mists from the brow of day : 
Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim 
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, 
Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone ! 
Thou darest not face the godlike sun. 
Chap. vi. 



THE ORPHAN MAID. 

November's hail cloud drifts away, 

November's sun-beam wan 
Looks coldly on the castle gray, 

When forth comes Lady Anne. 

The orphan by the oak was set, 
Her arms, her feet, were bare ; 

The hail-drops had not melted yet, 
Amid her raven hair. 

"And, dame," she said, "by all the ties 
That child and mother know, 

Aid one who never knew these joys, — 
Relieve an orphan's woe." 

The lady said, "An orphan's state 

Is hard and sad to bear ; 
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, 

Who mourns both lord and heir. 

41 Twelve times the rolling year has sped, 
Since, while from vengeance wild 

Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, 
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child." — 

"Twelve times the year its course has 
The wandering maid replied ; [borne," 

"Since fishers on St. Bridget's mora 
Drew nets on Campsie side. 

"St. Bridget sent no scaly spoil; 

An infant, well-nigh dead, 
They saved, and rear'd in want and toil, 

To beg from you her bread." 

That orphan maid the lady kiss'd, — 
" My husband's looks you bear; 

Saint Bridget and her morn be bless' d ! 
You are his widow's heir." 

They've robed that maid, so poor and pale, 

In silk and sendals rare ; 
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, 

Are glistening in her hair. — Chap. ix. 



^rom ffranjjoe. 

THE CRUSADER'S RETURN. 

1. 
High deeds achieved of knightly fame, 
From Palestine the champion came ; 
The cross upon his shoulders borne, 
Battle and blast had dimm'd and torn. 
Each dint upon his batter'd shield 
Was token of a foughten field ; 
And thus, beneath his lady's bower, 
He sung, as fell the twilight hour : 



4i6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ii. 
"Joy to the fair! — thy knight behold, 
Retum'd from yonder land of gold ; 
No wealth he brings, no wealth can need, 
Save his good arms and battle-steed ; 
His spurs to dash against a foe, 
His lance and sword to lay him low ; 
Such all the trophies of his toil, 
Such — and the hope of Tekla's smile ! 

in. 
"Joy to the fair! whose constant knight 
Her favour fired to feats of might ! 
Unnoted shall she not remain 
Where meet the bright and noble train ; 
Minstrel shall sing, and herald tell — 
' Mark yonder maid of beauty well, 
'Tis she for whose bright eyes was won 
The listed field of Ascalon ! 



"'Note well her smile! — it edged the 

blade 
Which fifty wives to widows made, 
When, vain his strength and Mahound's 

spell, 
Iconium's turban'd Soldan fell. 
See'st thou her locks, whose sunny glow 
Half shows, half shades, her neck of snow? 
Twines not of them one golden thread, 
But for its sake a Paynim bled.' 

v. 
"Joy to the fair! — my name unknown, 
Each deed, and all its praise, thine own ; 
Then, oh ! unbar this churlish gate, 
The night-dew falls, the hour is late. 
Inured to Syria's glowing breath, 
I feel the north breeze chill as death ; 
Let grateful love quell maiden shame, 
And grant him bliss who brings thee fame." 
Chap, xviii. 

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 

I. 
I'LL give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth 

or twain, 
To search Europe through from Byzantium 

to Spain ; 
But ne'er shall you find, should you search 

till you tire, 
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 

ii. 

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in 

career, 
And is brought home at even -song prick'd 

through with a spear ; 



I confess him in haste— for his lady desires 
No comfort on earth save the Barefooted 

Friar's. 

ill. 
Your monarch! — Pshaw! many a prince 

has been known 
To barter his robes for our cowl and our 

gown ; 
But which of us e'er felt the idle desire 
To exchange for a crown the gray hood of 

a Friar ? 

IV. 

The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he 

has gone, 
The land and its fatness is mark'd for his 

own ; 
He can roam where he lists, he can stop 

where he tires, 
For every man's house is the Barefooted 

Friar's. 

v. 
He's expected at noon, and no wight, till 

he comes, 
May profane the great chair, or the por- 
ridge of plums ; 
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by 

the fire, 
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VI. 

He's expected at night, and the pasty's 

made hot, 
They broach the brown ale, and they fill 

the black pot ; 
And the good-wife would wish the good- 

nian in the mire, 
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted 

Friar. 

VII. 

Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and 

the cope, 
The dread of the devil and trust of the 

Pope! 
For to gather life's roses unscathed by 

the briar 
Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar. 
Chap, xviii. 

SAXON WAR-SONG. 



Whet the bright steel, 
Sons of the White Dragon ! 
Kindle the torch, 
Daughter of Hengist ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



417 



The steel glimmers not for the carving of 

the banquet, 
It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed ; 
The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber, 
It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. 
Whet the steel, the raven croaks ! 
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling ! 
"Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon ! 
Kindle the torch, daughter of Hengist ! 

11. 
The black clouds are low over the thane's 

castle : 
The eagle screams — he rides on their 

bosom. 
Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud, 
Thy banquet is prepared ! 
The maidens of Valhalla look forth, 
The race of Hengist will send them guests. 
Shake your black tresses, maidens of 

Valhalla ! 
And strike your loud timbrels for joy ! 
Many a haughty step bends to your halls, 
Many a helmed head. 

III. 
Dark sits the evening upon the thane's 

castle, 
The black clouds gather round ; 
Soon shall they be red as the blood of the 

valiant ! 
The destroyer of forests shall shake his 

red crest against them ; 
He, the bright consumer of palaces, 
Broad waves he his blazing banner, 
Red, wide, and dusky, 
Over the strife of the valiant ; 
His joy is in the clashing swords and 

broken bucklers ; 
He loves to lick the hissing blood as it 

bursts warm from the wound ! 

IV. 

All must perish ! 

The sword cleaveth the helmet ; 

The strong armour is pierced by the lance : 

Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, 

Engines break down the fences of the 

battle. 
All must perish ! 
The race of Hengist is gone — 
The name of Horsa is no more ! 
Shrink not then from your doom, sons of 

the sword ! 
Let your blades drink blood like wine ; 
Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, 
By the light of the blazing halls ! 



Strong be your swords while your blood 

is warm. 
And spare neither for pity nor fear, 
For vengeance hath but an hour; 
Strong hate itself shall expire ! 
I also must perish. 

Note. — " It will readily occur to the anti- 
quary, that these verses are intended to imitate 
the antique poetry of the Scalds — the minstrels 
of the old Scandinavians — the race, as the 
Laureate so happily terms them, 

" Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endure, 
Who smiled in death." 

The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their 
civilization and conversion, was of a different 
and softer character ; but, in the circumstances 
of Ulrica, she may be not unnaturally supposed 
to return to the wild strains which animated her 
forefathers during the times of Paganism and 
untamed ferocity." — Chap, xxxii. 

REBECCA'S HYMN. 

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, 

Out from the land of bondage came, 
Her fathers' God before her moved, 

An awful guide in smoke and flame. 
By day, along the astonish'd lands 

The clouded pillar glided slow; 
By night Arabia's crimson'd sands 

Return'd the fiery column's glow. 

There rose the choral hymn of praise, 

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, 
And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, 

With priest's and warrior's voice be- 
tween. 
No portents now our foes amaze, 

Forsaken Israel wanders lone : 
Our fathers would not know Thy ways, 

And Thou hast left them to their own. 
But present still, though now unseen ! 

When brightly shines the prosperous 
day, 
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen 

To temper the deceitful ray. 
And oh, when stoops on Judah's path 

In shade and storm the frequent night, 
Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath, 

A burning and a shining light ! 

Our harps we left by Babel's streams, 

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn ; 
No censer round our altar beams, 

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. 
But Thou hast said, The blood of goat, 

The flesh of rams, I will not prize ; 
A contrite heart, a humble thought, 

Are mine accepted sacrifice. — Chap. xl. 
27 



4i8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



THE BLACK KNIGHTS SONG 
OR VIRELAI. 

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, 
Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, 
Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing 

free, 
Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie. 
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn, 
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on 

his horn, 
The echo rings merry from rock and 

from tree. 
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna- 
Marie. 

WAMBA. 
O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, 
Around my soft pillow while softer dreams 

flit; 
For what are the joys that in waking we 

prove, 
Compared with these visions, O Tybalt! 

my love ? 
Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol 

shrill, 
Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on 

the hill, 
Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber 

I prove, 
But think not I dream" d of thee, Tybalt, 

my love. — Chap. xli. 

SONG. 

DUET BETWEEN THE BLACK KNIGHT 
AND WAMBA. 

There came three merry men from south, 
west, and north, 
Ever more sing the roundelay ; 
To win the Widow of Wycombe forth, 
And where was the widow might say 
them nay? 

The first was a knight, and from Tyne- 
dale he came, 
Ever more sing the roundelay ; 
And his fathers, God save us, were men 
of great fame, 
And where was the widow might say 
hrm nay ? 

Of his father the laird, of his 'uncle the 

squire, 

He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay ; 

She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire, 

For she was the widow would say him 

nay. 



WAMBA. 
The next that came forth, swore by blood 
and by nails, 
Merrily sing the roundelay ; 
Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's 
lineage was of Wales, 
And where was the widow might say 
him nay? 

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffifth ap 
Hugh 
Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roun- 
delay ; 
She said that one widow for so many was 
too few, 
And she bade the Welshman wend his 
way. 

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman 
of Kent, 
Jollily singing his roundelay ; 
He spoke to the widow of living and rent, 
And where was a widow could say him 
nay? 

BOTH. 

So the knight and the squire were both 
left in the mire, 
There for to sing their roundelay ; 
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly 
rent, 
There ne'er was a widow could say him 
nay. — Chap. xli. 

FUNERAL HYMN. 

Dust unto dust, 
To this all must ; 

The tenant has resign'd 
The faded form 
To waste and worm — 

Corruption claims her kind. 

Through paths unknown 
Thy soul hath flown, 

To seek the realms of woe, 
Where fiery pain 
Shall purge the stain 

Of actions done below. 

In that sad place, 
By Mary's grace, 

Brief may thy dwelling be ; 
Till prayers and alms, 
And holy psalms, 

Shall set the captive free. 

Chap, xliii. 






MISCELLANEOUS TO EMS. 



419 



r 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Approach the chamber, look upon his 

bed. 
His is the passing of no peaceful ghost, 
Which, as the lark arises to the sky, 
'Mid morning's sweetest breeze and softest 

dew, 
Is wing'd to heaven by good men's sighs 

and tears ! 
Anselm parts otherwise. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Trust me, each state must have its policies : 
Kingdoms have edicts, cities have their 

charters ; 
Even the wild outlaw, in his forest-walk, 
Keeps yet some touch of civil discipline. 
For not since Adam wore his verdant 

apron, 
Hath man with man in social union dwelt, 
But laws were made to draw the union 

closer. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVI. 

Arouse the tiger of Hyrcanian deserts, 
Strive with the half-starved lion for his 

prey; 
Lesser the risk, than rouse the slumbering 

fire 
Of wild Fanaticism. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 
Say not my art is fraud — all live by 

seeming. 
The beggar begs with it, and the gay 

courtier 
Gains land and title, rank and rule, by 

seeming : 
The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier 
Will eke with it his service.— All admit it, 
All practise it ; and he who is content 
With showing what he is, shall have small 

credit 
In church, or camp, or state. — So wags 

the world.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

Stern was the law which bade its vot'ries 

leave 
At human woes with human hearts to 

grieve ; 
Stern was the law which at the winning 

wile 
Of frank and harmless mirth forbade to 

smile - 



But sterner still, when high the iron rod 
Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd that 
power of God. — The Middle Ages. 



Jrom i\z fjjptonasterg. 
1820. 

SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF 
AVENEL. 

ON TWEED RIVER. 

I. 

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 

Both current and ripple are dancing in light. 

We have roused the night raven, I heard 

him croak, 
As we plashed along beneath the oak 
That flings its broad branches so far and 

so wide, 
Their shadows are dancing in midst of 

the tide. 
" Who wakens my nestlings ? " the raven, 

he said, 
' ' My beak shall ere morn in his blood be 

red! 
For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal, 
And I'll have my share with the pike and 

the eel." 

II. 
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
There's a golden gleam on the distant 

height : 
There's a silver shower on the alders dank, 
And the drooping willows that wave on 

the bank. 
I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, 
It is all astir for the vesper hour ; 
The Monks for the chapel are leaving each 

oell, 
But where's Father Philip should toll the 

bell? 

in. 
Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, 
Downward we drift through shadow and 

light ; 
Under yon rock the eddies sleep, 
Calm and silent, dark and deep. 
The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless 

pool, 
He has lighted his candle of death and of 

dool: 
Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see 
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on 

thee! 



.y20 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Good luck to your fishing, whom watch 

ye to-night? 
A man of mean or a man of might ? 
Is it layman or priest that must float in 

your cove, 
Or lover who crosses to visit his love? 
Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we 

pass'd, — 
'' God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd 

the bridge fast ! 
All that come to my cove are sunk, 
Priest or layman, lover or monk." 



Landed — landed! the black book hath 

won, 
Else had you seen Berwick with morning 

sun! 
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be, 
For seldom they land that go swimming 

with me. — Chap. v. 

TO THE SUB-PRIOR. 

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as 

you ride, 
With your mule so fair, and your mantle 

so wide ; 
But ride you through valley, or ride you 

o'er hill, 
There is one that has warrant to wait on 

you still. 

Back, back, 
The volume black ! 
I have a warrant to carry it back. 

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but 

here 
To conjure a book from a dead woman's 

bier? 
Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise, 
Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for 

your prize. 

Back, back, 

There's death in the track ! 
In the name of my master, 1 bid thee bear 

back. 

" In the name of MY Master," said the 
astonished Monk, "that name before 
which all things created tremble, I con- 
jure thee to say what thou art that haunt- 
est me thus?" 

TTie same voice replied, — 

r, hat which is neither ill nor well, 
That which belongs not to heaven nor to 
hell, 



A wreath Of the mist, a bubble of the 

stream, 
'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping 
dream ; 

A form that men spy 
With the half-shut eye 
In the beams of the setting sun, am I. 

Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me 
my right ! 

Like the star when it shoots, I can dart 
through the night ; 

I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the 
air, 

And travel the world with the bonny night- 
mare. 

Again, again, 

At the crook of the glen, 

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee 
again. 



Men of good are bold as sackless,* 
Men of rude are wild and reckless, 
Lie thou still 
In the nook of the hill, 
For those be before thee that wish thee ill. 
Chap. ix. 

HALBERT'S INVOCATION. 

Thrice to the holly brake- 
Thrice to the well : — 

I bid thee awake, 
White Maid of Avenel ! 

Noon gleams on the Lake — 
Noon glows on the Fell — 

Wake thee, O wake, 
White Maid of Avenel. 

TO HALBERT. 
Youth of the dark eye, wherefoie didst 

thou call- me? 
Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can 

appal thee? 
He that seeks to deal with us must know 

nor fear nor failing ; 
To coward and churl our speech is dark, 

our gifts are unavailing. 
The breeze that brought me hither now 

must sweep Egyptian ground, 
The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby 

is bound : 
The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze 

sighs for my stay, 
For I must sail a thousand miles before the 

close of day. 

* Sackless— Innocent. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



4 2I 



What I am I must not show — 
What I am thou couldst not know — 
Something betwixt heaven and hell — 
Something that neither stood nor fell — 
Something that through thy wit or will " 
May work thee good — may work thee ill. 
Neither substance quite, nor shadow, 
Haunting lonely moor and meadow, 
Dancing by the haunted spring, 
Riding on the whirlwind's wing ; 
Aping in fantastic fashion 
Every change of human passion, 
While o'er our frozen minds they pass, 
Like shadows from the mirror'd glass. 
Wayward, fickle, is our mood, 
Hovering betwixt bad and good, 
Happier than brief-dated man, 
Living ten times o'er his span ; 
Far less happy, for we have 
Help nor hope beyond the grave! 
Man awakes to joy or sorrow ; 
Ours the sleep that knows no morrow. 
This is all that I can show — 
This is all that thou may'st know. 



Ay ! and I taught thee the word and the 

spell, 
To waken me here by the Fairies' Well. 
But thou hast loved the heron and hawk, 
More than to seek my haunted walk ; 
And thou hast loved the lance and the 

sword, 
More than good text and holy word ; 
And thou hast loved the deer to track, 
More than the lines and the letters black ; 
And thou art a ranger of moss and wood, 
And scornest the nurture of gentle blood. 



Thy craven fear my truth accused, 

Thine idlehood my trust abused ; 

He that draws to harbour late, 

Must sleep without, or burst the gate. 

There is a star for thee which burn'd, 

Its influence wanes, its course is turn'd ; 

Valour and constancy alone 

Can bring thee back the chance that's flown. 



Within that awful volume lies 
The mystery of mysteries ! 
Happiest they of human race, 
To whom God has granted grace 
To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, 
To lift the latch, and force the way ; 
And better had they ne'er been born, 
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn. 



Many a fathom dark and deep 
I have laid the book to sleep ; 
Ethereal fires around it glowing — 
Ethereal music ever flowing — 

The sacred pledge of Heav'n 
All things revere, 
Each in his sphere, 

Save man for whom 'twas giv'n : 
Lend thy hand, and thou shalt spy 
Things ne'er seen by mortal eye. 



Fearest thou to go with me? 
Still it is free to thee 

A peasant to dwell ; 
Thou may'st drive the dull steer, 
And chase the king's deer, 
But never more come near 

This haunted well. 



Here lies the volume thou boldly hast 

sought ; 
Touch it, and take it, 'twill dearly be 

bought. 



Rash thy deed, 
Mortal weed 
To mortal flames applying ; 
Rasher trust 
Has thing of dust, 
On his own weak worth relying ; 
Strip thee of such fences vain, 
Strip, and prove thy luck again. 



Mortal warp and mortal woof 
Cannot brook this charmed roof; 
All that mortal art hath wrought 
In our cell returns to nought. 
The molten gold returns to clay, 
The polish 'd diamond melts away : 
All is alter'd, all is flown, 
Nought stands fast but truth alone. 
Not for that thy quest give o'er : 
Courage! prove thy chance once more 



Alas! alas! 

Not ours the grace 

These holy characters to trace ; 

Idle forms of painted air, 

Not to us is given to share 
The boon bestow'd on Adam's race. 

With patience bide, 

Heaven will provide 
The fitting time, the fitting guide. 

Chap. xjj. 



422 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



SONGS 
IN halbert's second interview with 

THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. 

This is the day when the fairy kind 
Sit weeping alone for their hopeless lot, 
And the wood-maiden sighs to the sighing 

wind, 
And the mermaiden weeps in her crystal 

grot; 
For this is a day that the deed was wrought, 
In which we have neither part nor share, 
For the children of clay was salvation 

bought, 
But not for the forms of sea or air ! 
And ever the mortal is most forlorn, 
Who meeteth ourrace on the Friday morn. 



Daring youth ! for thee it is well, 
Here calling me in haunted dell, 
That thy heart has not quail'd, 
Nor thy courage fail'd, 
And that thou couldst brook 
The angry look 
Of Her of Avenel. 
Did one limb shiver, 
Or an eyelid quiver, 
Thou wert lost for ever. 



Though I'm form'd from the ether blue, 
And my blood is of the unfallen dew, 
And thou art framed of mud and dust, 
'Tis thine to speak, reply I must. 



A mightier wizard far than I 

Wields o'er the universe his power ; 
Him owns the eagle in the sky, 

The turtle in the bower. 
Changeful in shape, yet mightiest still, 
He wields the heart of man at will, 
From ill to good, from good to ill, 
In cot and castle-tower. 



Ask thy heart, whose secret cell 
Is fill'd with Mary Avenel ! 
Ask thy pride, why scornful look 
In Mary's view it will not brook? 
Ask it, why thou seek'st to rise 
Among the mighty and the wise, — 
Why thou spurn'st thy lowly lot, — 
Why thy pastimes are forgot, — 
Why thou wouldst in bloody strife 
Mend thy luck or lose thy life? 
Ask thy heart, and it shall tell, 



Sighing from its secret cell, 
'Tis for Mary Avenel. 



Do not ask me ; 

On doubts like these thou canst not task me. 

We only see the passing show 

Of human passions' ebb and flow ; 

And view the pageants idle glance 

As mortals eye the northern dance, 

When thousand streamers, flashing bright, 

Career it o'er the brow of night, 

And gazers mark their changeful gleams, 

But feel no influence from their beams. 



By ties mysterious link'd, our fated race 
Holds strange connection with the sons of 

men. 
The star that rose upon the House of 

Avenel, 
When Norman Ulric first assumed the 

name, 
That star, when culminating in its orbit, 
Shot from its sphere a drop of diamond 

dew, 
And this bright font received it — and a 

Spirit 
Rose from the fountain, and her date of 

life 
Hath co-existence with the House of 

Avenel 
And with the star that rules it. 



Look on my girdle — on this thread of 

gold— 
'Tis fine as web of lightest gossamer, 
And, but there is a spell on't, would not 

bind, 
Light as they are, the folds of my thin 

robe. 
But when 'twas donn'd, it was a massive 

chain, 
Such as might bind the champion of the 

Jews, 
Even when his locks were longest — it 

hath dwindled, 
Hath 'minished in its substance and its 

strength, 
As sunk the greatness of the House of 

Avenel. 
When this frail thread gives way, I to the 

elements 
Resign the principles of life they lent me. 
Ask me no more of this ! — the stars for- 
bid it, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



423 



Dim burns the once bright star of Avenel, 
Dim as the beacon when the morn is nigh, 
And the o er-wearied warder leaves the 

light-house ; 
There is an influence sorrowful and fearful, 
That dogs its downward course. Disas- 
trous passion, 
Fierce hate and rivalry, are in the aspect 
That lowers upon its fortunes. 



Compiain not of me, child of clay, 

If to thy harm I yield the way. 

We, who soar thy sphere above, 

Know not aught of hate or love ; 

As will or wisdom rules thy mood, 

My gifts to evil turn or good. — Chap. xvii. 

THE WHITE LADY TO MARY 
AVENEL. 

Maiden, whose sorrows wail the Living 
Dead, 
Whose eyes shall commune with the 
Dead Alive, 
Maiden, attend ! Beneath my foot lies hid 
The Word, the Law, the Path which 
thou dost strive 
To find, and canst not find. — Could Spirits 
shed 
Tears for their lot, it weremy lotto weep, 
Showing the road which I shall never tread, 
Though my foot points it. — Sleep, 
eternal sleep, 
Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my 
lot!— 
But do not thou at human ills repine ; 
Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot 
For all the woes that wait frail Adam's 
line- 
Stoop then and make it yours, — I may 
not make it mine! — Chap. xxx. 

THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD 
GLENDENNING. 
Thou who seek'st my fountain lone, 
With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not 

own ; 
Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, 
When most his brow seem'd dark and sad ; 
Hie thee back, thou find'st not here 
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier; 
The Dead Alive is gone and fled — 
Go thou, and join the Living Dead ! 

The Living Dead, whose sober brow 
Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, 



Whose hearts within are seldom cured 
Of passions by their vows abjured ; 
Where, under sad and solemn show, 
Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow. 
Seek the convent's vaulted room, 
Prayer and vigil be thy doom ; 
Doff the green, and don the gray, 
To the cloister hence away! — Chap, xxxii. 

THE WHITE LADY'S FAREWELL. 

Fare thee well, thou Holly green ! 

Thou shalt seldom now be seen, 

With all thy glittering garlands bending, 

As to greet my slow descending, 

Startling the bewilder'd hind, 

Who sees thee wave without a wind. 

Farewell, Fountain ! now not long 
Shalt thou murmur to my song, 
While thy crystal bubbles glancing, 
Keep the time in mystic dancing, 
Rise and swell, are burst and lost, 
Like mortal schemes by fortune cross'd. 

The knot of fate at length is tied, 
The Churl is Lord, the Maid is Bride ! 
Vainly did my magic sleight 
Send the lover from her sight ; 
Wither bush, and perish well, 
Fall'n is lofty Avenel ! — Chap, xxxvii. 

BORDER BALLAD. 



March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, 
Why the deil dinna ye march forward 
in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, 
Ail the Blue Bonnets are bound for 
the Border. 

Many a banner spread, 
Flutters above your head, 
Many a crest that is famous in story. 
Mount and make ready then, 
Sons of the mountain glen, 
Fight for the Queen and our old Scot- 
tish glory. 

II. 
Come from the hills where yotir hirsels 
are grazing, 
Come from the glen of the buck and 
the roe ; 
Come to the crag where the beacon is 
blazing, 
Come with the buckler, the lance, and 
the bow. 



424 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Trumpets are sounding 1 , 
War-steeds are bounding, 
Stand to your arms, and march in good 
order ; 

England shall many a day 
Tefl of the bloody fray, 
When the Blue Bonnets came over the 
Border. — Chap. xxv. 

MOTTOES. 
chap. r. 

AY ! the Monks, the Monks, they did 

the mischief ! 

Theirs all the grossness, all the super- 
stition 

Of a most gross and superstitious age. — 

May He be praised that sent the health- 
ful tempest, 

And scattered all these pestilential vapours ; 

But that we owed them all to yonder 
Harlot 

Throned on the seven hills with her cup 
of gold, 

1 will as soon believe, with kind Sir Roger, 
That old Moll White took wing with 

cat and broomstick, 
And raised the last night's thunder. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. II. 
In yon lone vale his early youth was bred. 
Not solitary then — the bugle-horn 
Of fell Alecto often waked its windings, 
From where the brook joins the majestic 

river, 
To the wild northern bog, the curlew's 

haunt, 
Where oozes forth its first and feeble 

streamlet. — Old Play. 

CHAP. VIII. 

Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's 

treasure, 
Though fools are lavish on't — the fatal 

Fisher 
Hooks souls, while we waste moments. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XI. 

You call this education, do you not ? 

Why 'tis the forced march of a herd of 
bullocks 

Before a shouting drover. The glad van 

Move on at ease, and pause a while to 
snatch 

A passing morsel from the dewy green- 
sward, 



While all the blows, the oaths, the in- 
dignation, 
Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard 
That cripples in the rear. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XII. 

There's something in that ancient super- 
stition, 

Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves. 

The spring that, with its thousand crystal 
bubbles, 

Bursts from the bosom of some desert 
rock 

In secret solitude, may well be deem'd 

The haunt of something purer, more re- 
fined, 

And mightier than ourselves. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 
Nay, let me have the friends who eat my 

victuals, 
As various as my dishes. The feast's 

naught, 
Where one huge plate predominates. — 

John Plaintext, 
He shall be mighty beef, our English 

staple ; 
The worthy Alderman, a butter'd dump- 
ling; 
Yon pair of whisker'd Cornets, ruffs and 

reeves ; 
Their friend the Dandy, a green goose in 

sippets. 
And so the board is spread at once and 

fill'd 
On the same principle — Variety. 

New Play. 
CHAP. XV. 
He strikes no coin, 'tis true, but coins 

new phrases, 
And vends them forth as knaves vend 

gilded counters, 
Which wise men scorn, and fools accept 

in payment. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Now choose thee, gallant, betwixt wealth 
and honour ; 

There lies the pelf, in sum to bear thee 
through 

The dance of youth, and the turmoil of 
manhood, 

Yet leave enough for age's,, chimney- 
corner ; 

But an thou grasp to it, farewell Ambition ! 

Farewell each hope of bettering thy con- 
dition, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



42S 



And raising thv low rank above the churls 
That till the earth for bread !— Old Play. 



CHAP. XXI. 
Indifferent, but indifferent — pshaw ! 



he 
doth it not 
Like one who is his craft's master — ne'er- 

theless 
[ have seen a clown confer a bloody cox- 
comb 
On one who was a master of defence. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Yes, life hath left him — every busy 

thought, 
Each fiery passion, every strong affection, 
The sense of outward ill and inward 

sorrow, 
Are fled at once from the pale trunk 

before me ; 
And I have given that which spoke and 

moved, 
Thought, acted, suffer'd, as a living man, 
To be a ghastly form of bloody clay, 
Soon the foul food for reptiles. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIII. 
'Tis when the wound is stiffening with 

the cold, 
The warrior first feels pain — 'tis when the 

heat 
And fiery fever of his soul is past, 
The sinner feels remorse. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

I'll walk on tiptoe ; arm my eye with 

caution, 
My heart with courage, and my hand with 

weapon, 
Like him who ventures on a lion's den. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard 

reckoning, 
That I, with every odds of birth and 

barony, 
Should be detain'd here for the casual 

death 
Of a wild forester, whose utmost having 
Is but the brazen buckle of the belt 
In which he sticks his hedge-knife. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

You call it an ill angel— it may be so ; 
But sure I am, among the ranks which 
fell, 



'Tis the first fiend e'er counsell'd man to 

rise, 
And win the bliss the sprite himself had 

forfeited.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

At school I knew him — a sharp-witted 

youth, 
Grave, thoughtful, and reserved amongst 

his mates, 
Turning the hours of sport and food to 

labour, 
Starving his body to inform his mind. 

Old Play. 
CHAP, xxxirr. 
Now on my faith this gear is all entangled, 
Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy 

knitter, 
Dragg'd by the frolic kitten through the 

cabin, 
While the good dame sits nodding o'er 

the fire — 
Masters, attend ; 'twill crave some skill to 

clear it.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIV. 

It is not texts will do it — Church artillery 

Are silenced soon by real ordnance, 

And canons are but vain opposed to 

cannon. 
Go, coin your crosier, melt your church 

plate down, 
Bid the starved soldiers banquet in your 

halls, 
And quaff your long-saved hogsheads — 

Turn them out 
Thus primed with your good cheer, to 

guard your wall, 
And they will venture for 't. — Old Play. 



1820. 
MOTTOES. 

CHAP. V. 

In the wild storm, 

The seaman hews his mast down, and the 

merchant 
Heaves to the billows wares he once 

deem'd precious : 
So prince and peer, 'mid popular con ten 

tions, 
Cast off their favourites, — Old Play, 



426 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



CHAP. VI. 

Thou hast each secret of the household, 

Francis. 
I dare be sworn thou hast been in the 

buttery 
Steeping thy curious humour in fat ale, 
And in the butler's tattle — ay, or chatting 
With the glib waiting-woman o'er her 

comfits — 
These bear the key to each domestic 

mystery. — Old Play. 

CHAP. VIII. 

The sacred tapers' lights are gone, 
Gray moss has clad the altar stone, 
The holy image is o'erthrown, 

The bell has ceased to toll. 
The long ribb'd aisles are burst and shrunk, 
The holy shrines to ruin sunk, 
Departed is the pious monk, 

God's blessing on his soul ! — Rediviva. 

CHAP. XI. 

Life hath its May, and all is mirthful then : 
The woods are vocal, and the flowers all 

odour ; 
Its very blast has mirth in't, — and the 

maidens, 
The while they don their cloaks to skreen 

their kirtles, 
Laugh at the rain that wets them. 

Old Play. 

CHAP. XII. 

Nay, hear me, brother — I am elder, wiser, 
And holier than thou; and age, and 

wisdom, 
And holiness, have peremptory claims, 
And will be listen'd to.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

Not the wild billow, when it breaks its 
barrier — 

Not the wild wind, escaping from its 
cavern— 

Not the wild fiend, that mingles both to- 
gether, 

And pours their rage upon the ripening 
harvest, 

Can match the wild freaks of this mirth- 
ful meeting — 

Comic, yet fearful — droll, and yet de- 
structive.— The Conspiracy. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Youth ! thou wear'st to manhood now, 
Darker lip and darker brow, 
Statelier step, more pensive mien, 
In thy face and gait are seen ; 



Thou must now brook midnight watches, 
Take thy food and sport by snatches ! 
For the gambol and the jest, 
Thou wert wont to love the best, 
Graver follies must thou follow, 
But as senseless, false, and hollow. 

Life, a Poem. 

CHAP. XIX. 
It is and is not — 'tis the thing I sought 

for, 
Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my 

fame and life for, 
And yet it is not — no more than the 

shadow 
Upon the hard, cold, fiat, and polish'd 

mirror, 
Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living 

substance 
Which it presents in form and lineament. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

Give me a morsel on the greensward 
rather, 

Coarse as you will the cooking — Let the 
fresh spring, 

Bubble beside my napkin — and the free 
birds, 

Twittering and chirping, hop from bough 
to bough, 

To claim the crumbs I leave for per- 
quisites — 

Your prison-feasts I like not. 

The Woodman, a Drama. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

'Tis a weary life this 

Vaults overhead, and grates and bars 

around me, 
And my sad hours spent with as sad 

companions, 
Whose thoughts are brooding o'er their 

own mischances, 
Far, far too deeply to take part in mine. 
The Woodsman. 

CHAP. XXV. 

And when Love's torch hath set the heart 

in flame, 
Comes Seignor Reason, with his saws and 

cautions, 
Giving such aid as the old gray-beard 

Sexton, 
Who from the church- vault drags his 

crazy engine, 
To ply its dribbling ineffectual streamlet 
Against a conflagration. — Old Play, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



427 



CHAP. XXVIII. 

Yes, it is she whose eyes look'd on thy 
childhood, 

And watch'd with trembling hope thy 
dawn of youth, 

That now, with these same eye-balls, 
dimm'd with age, 

And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dis- 
honour. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and 

silent, 
Like war's swart powder in a castle vault, 
Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it ; 
Then comes at once the lightning and the 

thunder, 
And distant echoes tell that all is rent 

asunder. — Old Play. 



Jrom Juttilfcorijj. 
1821. 

GOLDTH RED'S SONG. 

Of all the birds on bush or tree, 

Commend me to the owl, 
Since he may best ensample be 

To those the cup that trowl. 
For when the sun hath left the west, 
He chooses the tree that he loves the best, 
And he whoops out his song, and he 

laughs at his jest. 
Then, though hours be late, and weather 

foul. 
We'll drink to the health of the bonny, 

bonny owl. 

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl, 

He sleeps in his nest till morn ; 
But my blessing upon the jolly owl, 

That all night blows his horn. 
Then up with your cup till you stagger 

in speech, 
And match me this catch, till you swagger 

and screech, 
And drink till you wink, my merry men 

each; 
For, though hours be late, and weather 

be foul, 
We'll drink to the health of the bonny, 

bonny owl. — Chap. ii. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. IV. 

Not serve two masters?— Here's a youth 

will try it — 
Would fain serve God, yet give the devil 

his due ; 
Says grace before he doth a deed of vil- 

lany, 
And returns his thanks devoutly when 'tis 

acted.— Old Play. 

CHAP. VII. 

This is He 

Who rides on the court-gale ; controls its 
tides ; 

Knows all their secret shoals and fatal 
eddies ; 

Whose frown abases, and whose smile 
exalts. 

He shines like any rainbow — and, per- 
chance, 

His colours are as transient. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

This is rare news thou tell'st me, my good 

fellow ; 
There are two bulls fierce battling on the 

green 
For one fair heifer — if the one goes down, 
The dale will be more peaceful, and the 

herd, 
Which have small interest in their brulzie- 

ment, 
May pasture there in peace. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIII. 

Now God be good to me in this wild pil- 
grimage ! 

All hope in human aid I cast behind me. 

Oh, who would be a woman ? who that 
fool, 

A weeping, pining, faithful, loving woman? 

She hath hard measure still where she 
hopes kindest, 

And all her bounties only make ingrates. 
Love's Pilgrimage. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Hark ! the bells summon, and the bugle 

calls, 
But she the fairest answers not ; the tide 
Of nobles and of ladies throngs the halls, 
But she the loveliest must in secret hide. 
What eyes were thine, proud Prince, 

which in the gleam 
Of yon gay meteors lost that better sense, 



428 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



That o'er the glow-worm doth the star 

esteem, 
And merit's modest blush o'er courtly 

insolence? — The Glass Slipper. 

CHAP. XXVIII. 

What, man, ne'er lack a draught, when 

the full can 
Stands at thine elbow, and craves empty- 
ing !— 
Nay, fear not me, for I have no delight 
To watch men's vices, since I have myself 
Of virtue nought to boast of. — I'm a 

striker, 
Would have the world strike with me, 
pell-mell, all. — Pandemonium. 

CHAP. XXXII. 

The wisest sovereigns err like private men, 
And royal hand has sometimes laid the 

sword 
Of chivalry upon a worthless shoulder, 
Which better had been branded by 'the 

hangman. 
What then? Kings do their best, — and 

they and we 
Must answer for the intent, and not the 

event. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XL. 

High o'er the eastern steep the sun is 

beaming, 
And darkness flies with her deceitful 

shadows ; 
So truth prevails o'er falsehood. 

Old Play. 



jfrom % pirate. 
1821. 

THE SONG OF THE TEMPEST. 



Stern eagle of the far north-west, 
Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thun- 
derbolt, 
Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean 

to madness, 
Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the 

scatterer of navies, 
Amidst the scream of thy rage, 
Amidst the rushing of thy onward wings, 
Though thy scream be loud as the cry 
of a perishing nation, 



Though the rushing of thy wings be like 

the roar of ten thousand waves, 
Yet hear, in thine ire and thy haste, 
Hear thou the voice of the Reim-kennar. 

11. 
Thou hast met the pine-trees of Dron- 

theim, 
Their dark green heads lie prostrate be- 
side their uprooted stems ; 
Thou hast met the rider of the ocean, 
The tall, the strong bark of the fearless 

rover, 
And she has struck to thee the topsail 
Thac she had not vail*Q to a royal armada. 
Thou hast met the tower that bears its 

crest among the clouds, 
The battled massive tower of the Jarl of 

former days, 
And the cope-stone of the turret 
Is lying upon its hospitable hearth ; 
But thou too shalt stoop, proud compeller 

of clouds, 
When thou hearest the voice of the 

Reim-kennar. 

ill. 
There are verses that can stop the stag 

in the forest, 
Ay, when the dark-colour'd dog is opening 

on his track ; 
There are verses can make the wild hawk 

pause on the wing, 
Like the falcon that wears the hood and 

the jesses, 
And who knows the shrill whistle of the 

fowler. 
Thou who canst mock at the scream of 

the drowning mariner, 
And the crash of the ravaged forest, 
And the groan of the overwhelmed crowds. 
When the church hath fallen in the moment 

of prayer ; 
There are sounds which thou also must list, 
When they are chanted by the voice of the 

Reim-kennar. 



Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 

ocean, 
The widows wring their hands on the 

beach ; 
Enough of woe hast thou wrought on the 

land, 
The husbandman folds his arms in despair 1 
Cease thou the waving of thy pinions, 
Let the ocean repose in her dark strength. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



429 



Cease thou the flashing of thine eye, 

Let the thunderbolt sleep in the armoury of 

Odin; 
Be thou still at my bidding, viewless racer 

of the north-western heaven, — 
Sleep thou at the voice of Noma the 

Reim-kennar. 

v. 
Eagle of the far north-western waters, 
Thou hast heard the voice of the Reim- 
kennar, 
Thou hast closed thy wide sails at her 

bidding, 
And folded them in peace by thy side. 
My blessing be on thy retiring path ; 
When thou stoopest from thy place on 

high, 
Soft be thy slumbers in the caverns of the 

unknown ocean, 
Rest till destiny shall again awaken thee ; 
Eagle of the north-west, thou hast heard 

the voice of the Reim-kennar. 

Chap. vi. 

CLAUD HALCRO'S SONG. 

MARY. 

Farewell to Northmaven, 

Gray Hillswicke, farewell! 
To the calms of thy haven, 

The storms on thy fell — 
To each breeze that can vary 

The mood of thy main, 
And to thee, bonny Mary ! 

We meet not again ! 

Farewell the wild ferry, 

Which Hacon could brave, 
When the peaks of the Skerry 

Were white in the wave. 
There's a maid may look over 

These wild waves in vain, — 
For the skiff of her lover — 

He comes not again ! 

The vows thou hast broke, 

On the wild currents fling them ; 
On the quicksand and rock 

Let the mermaidens sing them. 
New sweetness they'll give her 

Bewildering strain ; 
But there's one who will never 

Believe them again. 

O were there an island, 

Though ever so wild. 
Where woman could smile, and 

No man be beguiled — 



Too tempting a snare 

To poor mortals were given ; 

And the hope would fix there. 
That should anchor in heaven. 

Chap. xii. 

THE SONG OF HAROLD 
HARFAGER. 

The sun is rising dimly red, 
The wind is wailing low and dread ; 
From his cliff the eagle sallies, 
Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys ; 
In the midst the ravens hover, 
Peep the wild dogs from the cover, 
Screaming, croaking, baying, yelling, 
Each in his wild accents telling, 
*' Soon we feast on dead and dying, 
Fair-hair' d Harold's flag is flying." 

Many a crest on air is streaming, 
Many a helmet darkly gleaming, 
Many an arm the axe uprears, 
Doom'd to hew the wood of spears. 
All along the crowded ranks 
Horses neigh and armour clanks ; 
Chiefs are shouting, clarions ringing, 
Louder still the bard is singing, 
"Gather footmen, gather horsemen, 
To the field, ye valiant Norsemen ! 

" Halt ye not for food or slumber, 
View not vantage, count not number : 
Jolly reapers, forward still, 
Grow the crop on vale or hill, 
Thick or scatter'd, stiff or lithe, 
It shall down before the scythe. 
Forward with your sickles bright, 
Reap the harvest of the fight. — 
Onward footmen, onward horsemen, 
To the charge, ye gallant Norsemen ! 

' ' Fatal Choosers of the Slaughter, 
O'er you hovers Odin's daughter ; 
Hear the choice she spreads before ye,- • 
Victory, and wealth, and glory ; 
Or old Valhalla's roaring hail, 
Her ever-circling mead and ale, 
Where for eternity unite 
The joys of wassail and of fight. 
Headlong forward, foot and horsemen, 
Charge and fight, and die like Norse- 
men!" — Chap. xv. 



- 



43° 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



SONG OF THE MERMAIDS AND 
MERMEN. 

MERMAID. 

Fathoms deep beneath the wave, 

Stringing beads of glistering pearl, 
Singing the achievements brave 

Of many an old Norwegian earl ; 
Dwelling where the tempest's raving, 

Falls as light upon our ear, 
As the sigh of lover, craving 

Pity from his lady dear, 
Children of wild Thule, we, 
From the deep caves of the sea, 
As the lark springs from the lea. 
Hither come, to share your glee. 

MERMAN. 

From reining of the water-horse, 

That bounded till the waves were foam- 
ing. 
Watching the infant tempest s course, 

Chasing the sea-snake in his roaming ; 
From winding charge-notes on the shell, 

When the huge whale and sword-fish 
duel, 
Or tolling shroudless seamen's knell, 

When the winds and waves are cruel ; 
Children of wild Thule, we 
Have plough'd such furrows on the sea, 
As the steer draws on the lea, 
And hither we come to share your glee. 

MERMAIDS AND MERMEN. 

We heard you in our twilight caves, 

A hundred fathom deep below, 
For notes of joy can pierce the waves, 

That drown each sound of war and woe. 
Those who dwell beneath the sea 

Love the sons of Thule well ; 
Thus, to aid your mirth, bring we 

Dance, and song, and sounding shell. 
Children of dark Thule, know, 
Those who dwell by haaf and voe, 
Where your daring shallops row, 
Come to share the festal show. 

Chap. xvi. 

NORNA'S SONG. 

For leagues along the watery way, 

Through gulf and stream my course has 
been; 

The billows know my Runic lay, 
And smooth their crests to silent green. 



The billows know my Runic lay, — 
The gulf grows smooth, the stream is 
still ; 

But human hearts, more wild than they, 
Know but the rule of wayward will. 

One hour is mine, in all the year, 
To tell my woes, — and one alone ; 

When gleams this magic lamp, 'tis here, — 
When dies the mystic light, 'tis gone. 

Daughters of northern Magnus, hail! 

The lamp is lit, the flame is clear, — 
To you I come to tell my tale, 

Awake, arise, my tale to hear ! 

Chap. xix. 

CLAUD HALCRO AND NORNA. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 

Mother darksome, Mother dread, 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

Thou canst see what deeds are done 

Under the never-setting sun. 

Look through sleet, and look through frost, 

Look to Greenland's caves and coast, — 

By the ice-berg is a sail 

Chasing of the swarthy whale ; 

Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 

Tell us, has the good ship sped? 

NORNA. 

The thought of the aged is ever on gear, — 
On his fishing, his furrow, his flock, and 

his steer ; 
But thrive may his fishing, flock, furrow, 

and herd, 
While the aged for anguish shall tear his 

gray beard, 
The ship, well-laden as bark need be, 
Lies deep in the furrow of the Iceland 

sea; — 
The breeze for Zetland blows fair and soft, 
And gaily the garland is fluttering aloft : 
Seven good fishes have spouted their last, 
And their jaw-bones are hanging" to yard 

and mast ; 
Two are for Lerwick, and two for Kirk- 
wall, — 
Three for Burgh Westra, the choicest of all. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 
Mother doubtful, Mother dread ! 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Thou hast conn'd full many a rhyme, 
That lives upon the surge of time : 
Tell me, shall my lays be sung, 
Like Hacon's of the golden tongue, 



i 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



43* 



Long after Halcro's dead and gone? 
Or, shall Hialtland's minstrel own 
One note to rival glorious John ? 

NORNA. 
The infant loves the rattle's noise ; 
Age, double childhood, hath its toys; 
But different far the descant rings, 
As strikes a different hand the strings. 
The eagle mounts the polar sky — 
The Imber-goose, unskill'd to fly, 
Must be content to glide along, 
Where seal and sea-dog list his song. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 
Be mine the Imber-goose to play, 
And haunt lone cave and silent bay ; 
The archer's aim so shall I shun — 
So shall I 'scape the levell'd gun- 
Content my verses' tuneless jingle 
With Thule's sounding tides to mingle, 
While, to the ear of wondering wight, 
Upon the distant headland's height, 
Soften'd by murmur of the sea, 
The rude sounds seem like harmony ! 



Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 

Dweller of the Fitful-head, 

A gallant bark from far abroad, 

Saint Magnus hath her in his road, 

With guns and firelocks not a few— 

A silken and a scarlet crew, 

Deep stored with precious merchandise, 

Of gold, and goods of rare device — 

What interest hath our comrade bold 

In bark and crew, in goods and gold? 



Gold is ruddy, fair, and free, 
Blood is crimson, and dark to see ; — 
I look'd out on Saint Magnus Bay, 
And 1 saw a falcon that struck her prey, 
A gobbet of flesh in her beak she bore, 
And talons and singles are dripping with 

gore ;— 
Let him that asks after them look on his 

hand, 
And if there is blood on't, he's one of their 

band. 

CLAUD HALCRO. 
Mother doubtful, Mother dread, 
Dweller of the Fitful-head, 
Well thou know'st it is thy task 
To tell what Beauty will not ask ; — 
Then steep thy words in wine and milk, 
And weave a doom of gold and silk, — 



For we would know, shall Brenda prove 
In love, and happy in her love ? 



Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest, 
High seated in the middle sky, 
In bright and barren purity ; 
But by the sunbeam gently kiss'd, 
Scarce by the gazing eye 'tis miss'd, 
Ere, down the lonely valley stealing, 
Fresh grass and growth its course reveal- 
ing, 
It cheers the flock, revives the flower, 
And decks some happy shepherd's bower. 

MAGNUS TROIL. 

Mother, speak, and do not tarry, 
Here's a maiden fain would marry; 
Shall she marry, ay or not? 
If she marry, what's her lot ? 



Untouch'd by love, the maiden's breast 
Is like the snow on Rona's crest ; 
So pure, so free from earthly dye, 
It seems, whilst leaning on the sky, 
Part of the heaven to which 'tis nigh ; 
But passion, like the wild March rain, 
May soil the wreath with many a stain. 
We gaze — the lovely vision's gone — 
A torrent fills the bed of stone, 
That hurrying to destruction's shock. 
Leaps headlong from the lofty rock. 

Chap. xxi. 

SONG OF THE ZETLAND 
FISHERMAN. 

Farewell, merry maidens, to song and 

to laugh, 
For the brave lads of Westra are bound to 

the Haaf ; 
And we must have labour, and hunger 

and pain, 
Ere we dance with the maids of Dunross- 

ness again. 

For now, in our trim boats of Noroway 

deal, 
We must dance on the waves, with the 

porpoise and seal ! 
The breeze it shall pipe, so it pipe not too 

high, 
And the gull be our songstress whene'er 

she flits by. ■ 



432 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



bing on, my brave bird, while we follow, 

like thee, 
By bank, shoal, and quicksand, the swarms 

of the sea ; 
And when twenty-score fishes are straining 

our line, 
Sing louder, brave bird, for their spoils 

shall be thine. 

We'll sing while we bait, and we'll sing 

while we haul, 
For the deeps of the Haaf have enough 

for us all : 
There is torsk for the gentle, and skate for 

the carle, 
And there's wealth for bold Magnus, the 

son of the earl. 

Huzza ! my brave comrades, give way for 

the Haaf, 
We shall sooner come back to the dance 

and the laugh ; 
For life without mirth is a lamp without 

oil; 
Then, mirth and long life to the bold 

Magnus Troil \ — Chap. xxii. 

CLEVELAND'S SONGS. 
I. 

Love wakes and weeps 

While Beauty sleeps ! 
O for Music's softest numbers, 

To prompt a theme, 

For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the pillow of her slumbers ! 



Through groves of palm 

Sigh gales of balm, 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; 

While through the gloom 

Comes soft perfume, 
The distant beds of flowers revealing. * 

ill. 

O wake and live ! 

No dream can give 
A shadow' d bliss, the real excelling ; 

No longer sleep, 

From lattice peep, 
And list the tale that Love is telling. 

Farewell ! farewell ! the voice you hear, 
Has left its last soft tone with you, — 

Its next must join the seaward cheer, 
And shout among the shouting crew. 

The accents which I scarce could form 
Beneath your frown's controlling check, 



Must give the word, above the storm, 
To cut the mast, and clear the wreck. 

The timid eye I dared not raise, — 

The hand, that shook when press' d to 
thine, 

Must point the guns upon the chase — 
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine. 

To all I love, or hope, or fear, — 
Honour, or own, a long adieu! 

To all that life has soft and dear, 
Farewell ! save memory of you ! 

Chap, xxiii. 

CLAUD HALCRO'S VERSES. 

And you shall deal the funeral dole ; 

Ay, deal it, mother mine, 
To weary body, and to heavy soul, 

The white bread and the wine. 

And you shall deal my horses of pride; 

Ay, deal them, mother mine ; 
And you shall deal my lands so wide, 

And deal my castles nine. 

But deal not vengeance for the deed, 

And deal not for the crime ; 
The body to its place, and the soul to 
Heaven's grace, 

And the rest in God's own time. 

NORNA'S INCANTATIONS. 

Champion, famed for warlike toil, 
Art thou silent, Ribolt Troil ? 
Sand, and dust, and pebbly stones, 
Are leaving bare thy giant bones. 
Who dared touch the wild bear's skin 
Ye slumber'd on, while life was in? — 
A woman now, or babe, may come 
And cast the covering from thy tomb. 

Yet be not wrathful, Chief, nor blight 

Mine eyes or ears with sound or sight ! 

I come not, with unhallow'd tread, 

To wake the slumbers of the dead, 

Or lay thy giant reliques bare ; 

But what I seek thou well canst spare. 

Be it to my hand allow'd 

To shear a merk's weight from thy shroud ; 

Yet leave thee sheeted lead enough 

To shield thy bones from weather rough. 

See, I draw my magic knife — 

Never, while thou wert in life, 

Laidst thou still for sloth or fear, 

When point and edge were glittering near ; 

See, the cerements now I sever — 

Waken now, or sleep for ever ! 



Thou wilt not wake — the deed is done ! — 
The prize I sought is fairly woo. 

Thanks, Ribolt, thanks,— for this the sea 
Shall smooth its ruffled crest for thee — 
And while afar its billows foam, 
Subside to peace near Ribolt's tomb. 
Thanks, Ribolt, thanks— for this the might 
Of wild winds raging at their height, 
When to thy place of slumber nigh, 
Shall soften to a lullaby. 

She, the dame of doubt and dread, 
Noma of the Fitful-head, 
Mighty in her own despite, — 
Miserable in her might ; 
In despair and frenzy great, 
In her greatness desolate ; 
Wisest, wickedest who lives, — 
Well can keep the word she gives. 

# Chap. xxv. 

[HER INTERVIEW WITH MINNA.] 

Thou, so needful, yet so dread, 
With cloudy crest, and wing of red ; 
Thou, without whose genial breath 
The North would sleep the sleep of death ; 
Who deign'st to warm the cottage hearth, 
Yet hurl'st proud palaces to earth, — 
Brightest, keenest of the Powers, 
Which form and rule this world of ours, 
With my rhyme of Runic, I 
Thank thee for thy agency. 



Elements, each other greeting, 
Gifts and power attend your meeting 



Old Reim-kennar, to thy art 
Mother Hertha sends her part ; 
She, whose gracious bounty gives 
Needful food for all that lives. 
From the deep mine of the North 
Came the mystic metal forth, 
Doom'd amidst disjointed stones, 
Long to cere a champion's bones, 
Disinhumed my charms to aid — 
Mother Earth, my thanks are paid. 



Girdle of our islands dear, 
Element of Water, hear ! 
Thou whose power can overwhelm 
Broken mounds and ruin'd realm 

On the lowly Belgian strand ; 
All thy fiercest rage can never 
Of our soil a furlong sever 

From our rock-defended land ; 
Play then gently thou thy part, 
To assist old Noma's art. 



Thou, that over billows dark, 
Safely send'st the fisher's bark, — 
Giving him a path and motion 
Through the wilderness of ocean ; 
Thou, that when the billows brave ye, 
O'er the shelves canst drive the navy,— 
Didst thou chafe as one neglected, 
While thy brethren were respected ? 
To appease thee, see, 1 tear 
This full grasp of grizzled hair ; 
Oft thy breath hath through it sung, 
Softening to my magic tongue, — 
Now, 'tis thine to bid it fly 
Through the wide expanse of sky, 
'Mid the countless swarms to sail 
Of wild-fowl wheeling on thy gale ; 
Take thy portion and rejoice, — 
Spirit, thou hast heard my voice 1 



She who sits by haunted well, 

Is subject to the Nixies' spell : 

She who walks on lonely beach, 

To the Mermaid's charmed speech ; 

She who walks round ring of green, 

Offends the peevish Fairy Queen ; 

And she who takes rest in the Dwarfie's 

cave, 
A weary weird of woe shall have. 

By ring, by spring, by cave, by shore, 
Minna Troil has braved all this and more ; 
And yet hath the root of her sorrow and ill, 
A source that's more deep and more mys- 
tical still. — 
Thou art within a demon's hold, 
More wise than Heims, more strong than 

Trold. 
No siren sings so sweet as he, — 
No fay springs lighter on the lea ; 
No elfin power hath half the art 
To soothe, to move, to wring the heart, — 
Life-blood from the cheek to drain, 
Drench the eye and dry the vein. 
Maiden, ere we farther go, 
Dost thou note me, ay or no ? 

MINNA. 

I mark thee, my mother, both word, look 

and sign ; 
Speak on with thy riddle— to read it be 

mine. 

i3 



434 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



NORNA. 

Mark me ! for the word I speak 
Shall bring the colour to thy cheek. 
This leaden heart, so light of cost, 
The symbol of a treasure lost, 
Thou shalt wear in hope and in peace, 
That the cause of your sickness and sor- 
row may cease, 
When crimson foot meets crimson hand 
In the Martyr's Aisle, and in Orkney 
land. — 



Be patient, be patient ; for Patience hath 

power 
To ward us in danger, like mantle in 

shower ; 
A fairy gift you best may hold 
In a chain of fairy gold ; — 
The chain and the gift are each a true 

token, 
That not without warrant old Noma has 

spoken ; 
But thy nearest and dearest must never 

behold them, 
Till time shall accomplish the truths I 

have told them. — Chap, xxviii. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

'Tis not alone the scene— the man, An- 
sel mo, 

The man finds sympathies in these wild 
wastes, 

And roughly tumbling seas, which fairer 
views 

And smoother waves deny him. 

Ancient Drama. 

CHAP. VII. 

She does no work by halves, yon raving 

ocean ; 
Engulphing those she strangles, her wild 

womb 
Affords the mariners whom she hath dealt 

on, 
Their death at once, and sepulchre. 

Old Play. 
CHAP. IX. 
This is a gentle trader, and a prudent- 
He's no Autolycus, to blear your eye, 
With quips of worldly gauds and game- 

someness ; 
But seasons all his glittering merchandise 
With wholesome doctrine suited to the use, 
As men sauce goose with sage and rose- 
mary. — Old Play. 



CHAP. XIV. 

We'll keep our customs— what is law itself, 

But old establish' d custom? What re- 
ligion, 

(I mean, with one-half of the men that 
use it,) 

Save the good use and wont that carries 
them 

To worship how and where their fathers 
worshipp'd ? 

All things* resolve in custom — we'll keep 
ours.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

See yonder woman, whom our swains 

revere, 
And dread in secret, while they take her 

counsel 
When sweetheart shall be kind, or when 

cross dame shall die ; 
Where lurks the thief who stole the silver 

tankard, 
And how the pestilent murrain may be 

cured ; — 
This sage adviser's mad, stark mad, my 

friend ; 
Yet, in her madness, hath the art and 

cunning 
To wring fools' secrets from their inmost 

bosoms, 
And pay inquirers with the coin they gave 

her. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

What ho, my jovial mates ! come on ! 
we'll frolic it 

Like fairies frisking in the merry moon- 
shine, 

Seen by the curtal friar, who, from some 
christening, 

Or some blithe bridal, hies belated cell- 
ward — 

He starts, and changes his bold bottle 
swagger 

To churchman's pace professional, — and, 
ransacking 

His treacherous memory for some holy 
hymn, 

Finds but the roundel of the midnight 
catch.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIII. 

Parental love, my friend, has power o'er 

wisdom, 
And is the charm, which, like the falconer's 

lure, 



" 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



435 



Can bring from heaven the highest soar- 
ing spirits. — 

So, when famed Prosper doff 'd his magic 
robe, 

It was Miranda pluck'd it from his shoul- 
ders.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXVII. 
Over the mountains, and under the waves, 
Over the fountains, and under the graves, 
Under floods that are deepest, 

Which Neptune obey, 
Over rocks that are steepest, 
Love will find out the way. 

Old Song. 



ON ETTRICK FORESTS MOUN- 
TAINS DUN. 
1822. 

ON Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 
'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, 
And seek the heath-frequenting brood 
Far through the noonday solitude ; 
By many a cairn and trenched mound, 
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound, 
And springs, where gray-hair' d shepherds 

tell, 
That still the fairies love to dwell. 

Along the silver streams of Tweed, 
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead, 
When to the hook the salmon springs, 
And the line whistles through the rings ; 
The boiling eddy see him try, 
Then dashing from the current high, 
Till watchful eye and cautious hand 
Have led his wasted strength to land. 

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide, 
With stalwart arm the boat to guide ; 
On high the dazzling blaze to rear, 
And heedful plunge the barbed spear ; 
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, 
Fling on the stream their ruddy light, 
And from the bank our band appears 
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears. 

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, 
How we succeed, and how we fail, 
Whether at Alwyn's * lordly meal, 
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ; 
While the gay tapers cheerly shine, 
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine — 

* Alivyn, the seat of the Lord Somerville. 



Days free from thought, and nights from 

care, 
My blessing on the Forest fair 1 



FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. 
1822. 

Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has 
decoy'd me, 
At the close of the evening through 
woodlands to roam, 
Where the forester, lated, with wonder 
espied me, 
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting 
for home. 
Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers 
wild speaking [woe : 

The language alternate of rapture and 
Oh ! none but some lover, whose heart- 
strings are breaking, 
The pang that I feel at our parting can 
know. 
Each joy thou couldst double, and when 
there came sorrow, 
Or pale disappointment, to darken my 
way, 
What voice was like thine, that could sing 
of to-morrow, 
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of 
to-day ! 
But when friends drop around us in life's 
weary waning, 
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou 
canst not assuage ; 
Nor the gradual estrangement of those 
yet remaining, 
The languor of pain, and the dullness 
of age. 

'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents 
bewailing, 
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on 
the plain, 
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid un- 
availing, 
And held to his lips the cold goblet in 
vain: 
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of 
wild Numbers, 
To a bard when the reign of his fancy 
is o'er, 
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy 
slumbers — 
Farewell, then, Enchantress ! I meet 
thee no more ! 



43« 



scorrs poetical works. 



THE MAID OF ISLA. 

Air— The Maid of Is la. 

WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S 
SCOTTISH MELODIES. 

1822. 

Oh, Maid of Isla, from the cliff, 

That looks on troubled wave and sky, 
Dost thou not see yon little skiff 

Contend with ocean gallantly ? 
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge, 

And steep' d her leeward deck in foam, 
Why does she war unequal urge ? — 

Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home. 

Oh, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, 

Her white wing gleams through mist 
and spray, 
Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark, 

As to the rock she wheels away ; — 
Where clouds are dark and billows rave, 

Why to the shelter should she come 
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave ? — 

Oh, maid of Isla, 'tis her home ! 

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, 

Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, 
And cold as is yon wintry cliff, 

Where sea-birds close their wearied 
wing. 
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, 

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come ; 
For in thy love, or in his grave, 

Must Allan Vourich find his home. 



CARLE, NOW THE KING'S 
COME.* 

BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. 
1822. 

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth, 
The North for ance has bang'd the South ; 
The deil a Scotsman's die o' drouth, 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

CHORUS. 
Carle, now the King's come ! 
Carle, now the King's come ! 
Thou shalt dance, and I will sing, 
Carle, now the King's come ! 



* An imitation of an old Jacobite ditty, 
written on the arrival of George IV. in Scot- 
land, August, 1822, and printed as a broadside. 



Auld England held him lang and fast ; 
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast ; 
But Scotland's turn is come at last — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

Auld Reekie, in her rokelay gray, 
Thought never to have seen the day ; 
He's been a weary time away — 

But, Carle, now the King's come! 

She's skirling frae the Castle-hill ; 
The Carline's voice is grown sae shrill, 
Ye'll hear her at the Canon-mill — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Up, bairns!" she cries, " baith grit and 

sma', 
And busk ye for the weapon-shaw ! 
Stand by me, and we'll bang them a' — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come from Newbattle's ancient spires, 
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and 

squires, 
And match the mettle of your sires — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"You're welcome hame, my Montagu! 
Bring in your hand the young Buccleuch ; 
I'm missing some that I may rue — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, 
You've graced my causeway mony a day; 
I'll weep the cause if you should stay — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Come, premier Duke.f and carry doun 
Frae yonder craig his ancient croun ; 
It's had a lang sleep and a soun' — 

But, Carle, now the King's come! 

" Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, 
Bring down your clansmen like a clud ; 
Come, Morton, show the Douglas' blood, — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

1 ' Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to 

sheath, 
Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of 

death ; 
Come, Clerk, % and give your bugle breath ; 
Carle, now the King's come! 

t The Duke of Hamilton, the premier duke 
of Scotland. 

X The Baron of Pennycuik, bound by his 
tenure to meet the sovereign whenever he or 
she visits Edinburgh at the Harestone, and 
there blow three blasts on a horn. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



437 



11 Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids ; 
Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades ; 
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ; 
Carle, now the King's come! 

"Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, 
Girt with the sword that Minden knew; 
We have o'er few such lairds as you — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" King Arthur's grown a common crier, 
He's heard in Fife and far Can tire, — 
* Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire ! ' 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Saint Abb roars out, ' I see him pass, 
Between Tantallon and the Bass I ' 
Calton, get out your keeking glass — 
Carle, now the King's come! " 

The Carline stopp'd ; and, sure I am, 
For very glee had ta'en a dwam, 
But Oman* help'd her to a dram. — 
Cogie, now the King's come ! 

Cogie, now the King's come ! 
Cogie, now the Kings come! 
I'se be fou and ye's be toom, f 
Cogie, now the King's come! 

PART SECOND. 

A Hawick gill of mountain dew, 
Heised up Auld Reekie's heart, I trow, 
It minded her of Waterloo — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

Again I heard her summons swell, 
For, sic a dirdum and a yell, 
It drown'd Saint Giles's jowing bell — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My trusty Provost, tried and tight, 
Stand forward for the Good Town's right, 
There's waur than you been made a 
knight J— 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

" My reverend Clergy, look ye say 
The best of thanksgivings ye ha'e, 
And warstle for a sunny day — 

Carle, now the King's come! 

" My Doctors, look that you agree, 
Cure a' the town without a fee ; 

* The landlord of the Waterloo Hotel. 

t Empty. 

+ The Lord Provost had the agreeable sur- 
prise of hearing his health proposed, at the 
civic banquet given to George IV. in the Par- 
liament-House, as "Sir William. Arbuthnot, 
Bart." 



My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bairn, 
That dints on wood or clanks on aim, 
That fires the o'en, or winds the pirn — 
Carle, now the King's come. 

" Come forward with the Blanket Blue,§ 
Your sires were loyal men and true, 
As Scotland's foemen oft might rue — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Scots downa loup, and rin and rave, 
We're steady folks and something grave, 
We'll keep the causeway firm and brave — 
Carle, now the King's come 1 

' ' Sir Thomas, || thunder from your rock, 
Till Pentland dinnles wi' the shock, 
And lace wi' fire my snood o' smoke — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Melville, bring out your bands of blue, 
A' Louden lads, baith stout and true, 
With Elcho, Hope, and Cockburn, too — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"And you, who on yon bluidy braes 
Compell'd the vanquish'd Despot's praise, 
Rankout— rank out — my gallant Greys IT — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Cock o' the North, my Huntly bra', 
Where are you with the Forty-twa ? 
Ah ! wae's my heart that ye're awa' — 
Carle, now the King's come! 

"But yonder come my canty Celts, 
With durk and pistols at their belts, 
Thank God, we've still some plaids and 
kilts — 

Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Lord, how the pibrochs groan and yell ! 
Macdonnel's ta'en the field hinisell, 
Macleod comes branking o'er the fell — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Bend up your bow each Archer spark, 
For you're to guard him light and dark , 
Faith, lads, for ance ye've hit the mark — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

' ' Young Errol, take the sword of state, 
The sceptre, Panie-Morarchate ; 
Knight Mareschal, see ye clear the gate — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

§ A Blue Blanket is the standard of the in- 
corporated trades of Edinburgh. 

|| Sir Thomas Bradford, then commander of 
the forces in Scotland. 

II The Scots Greys. 



43» 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



" Kind cummer, Leith, ye' ve been misset, 
But dinna be upon the fret — 
Ye'se hae the handsel of him yet, 

Carie, now the King's come ! 

" My daughters, come with een sae blue, 
Your garlands weave, your blossoms strew ; 
He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you — 
Carle, now the King's come! 

" What shall we do for the propine — 
We used to offer something fine, 
But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" Deil care — for that I'se never start, 
We'll welcome him with Highland heart ; 
Whate'er we have he's get a part — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" I'll show him mason-work this day— 
Nane of your bricks of Babel clay, 
But towers shall stand till Time's away — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

" I'll show him wit, I'll show him lair, 
And gallant lads and lasses fair, 
And what wad kind heart wish for mair? — 
Carle, now the King's come ! 

"Step out, Sir John,* of projects rife, 
Come win the thanks of an auld wife, 
And bring him health and length of life — 
Carle, now the King's come!" 



Jtom % ^axtvLWM of D%el. 

1822. 
MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XIX. 

By this good light, a wench of matchless 

mettle ! 
This were a leaguer-lass to love a soldier, 
To bind his wounds, and kiss his bloody 

brow, 
And sing a roundel as she help'd to arm 

him, 
Though the rough foeman's drums were 

beat so nigh, 
They seem'd to bear the burden. 

Old Play. 



* Sir John Sinclair, Bart., father of the cele- 
brated writer Catherine S in c lair . 



CHAP. XXII. 

Chance will not do the work— Chance 
sends the breeze ; 

But if the pilot slumber at the helm, 

The very wind that wafts us towards the 
port 

May dash us on the shelves. — The steers- 
man's part is vigilance, 

Blow it or rough or smooth. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIV. 
This is the time — heaven's maiden-sentinel 
Hath quitted her high watch— the lesser 

spangles 
Are paling one by one ; give me the 

ladder 
And the short lever — bid Anthony 
Keep with his carabine the wicket-gate ; 
And do thou bare thy knife and follow me, 
For we will in and do it— darkness like 

this 
Is dawning of our fortunes. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXV. 

Death finds us 'mid our playthings — 
snatches us, 

As a cross nurse might do a wayward 
child, 

From all our toys and baubles. His 
rough call 

Unlooses all our favourite ties on earth ; 

And well if they are such as may be an- 
swer' d 

In yonder world, where all is judged of 
truly.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

How fares the man on whom good men 
would look 

With eyes where scorn and censure com- 
bated, 

But that kind Christian love hath taught 
the lesson— 7 

That they who merit most contempt and 
hate, 

Do most deserve our pity. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Marry, come up, sir, with your gentle 

blood ! 
Here's a red stream beneath this coarse 

blue doublet, 
That warms the heart as kindly as if 

drawn 
From the far source of old Assyrian kings, 
Who first made mankind subject to their 

sway. — Old Play. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



439 



CHAP. XXXV. 

We are not worse at once — the course of 
evil 

Begins so slowly, and from such slight 
source, 

An infant's hand might stem its breach 
with clay ; 

But let the stream get deeper, and philo- 
sophy — 

Ay, and religion too — shall strive in vain 

To turn the headlong torrent. — Old Play. 



(from tytbinl of % |eak. 
1823. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

Why then, we will have bellowing of 

beeves, 
Broaching of barrels, brandishing of 

spigots ; 
Blood shall flow freely, but it shall be gore 
Of herds and flocks, and venison and 

poultry, 
Join'd to the brave heart' s-blood of John- 

a-Barleycorn ! — Old Play. 

CHAP. IV. 

No, sir, — I will not pledge — I'm one of 

those 
Who think good wine needs neither bush 

nor preface 
To make it welcome. If you doubt my 

word, 
Fill the quart-cup, and see if I will choke 

on't— Old Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Ascasto. Can she not speak ? 

Oswald. If speech be only in accented 

sounds, 
Framed by the tongue and lips, the 

maiden's dumb ; 
But if by quick and apprehensive look, 
By motion, sign, and glance, to give each 

meaning, 
Express as clothed in language, be term'd 

speech, 
She hath that wondrous faculty ; for her 

eyes, 
Like the bright stars of heaven, can hold 

discourse, 
Though it be mute and soundless. 

Old Play. 



CHAP. XVII. 

This is a love meeting ? See, the maiden 

mourns, 
And the sad suitor bends his looks on 

earth. 
There's more hath pass'd between them 

than belongs 
To Love's sweet sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XIX. 

Now, hoist the anchor, mates — and let 

the sails 
Give their broad bosom to the buxom 

wind, 
Like lass that wooes a lover. — Anon. 

CHAP. XXV. 

The course of human life is changeful still 

As is the fickle wind and wandering rill ; 

Or, like the light dance which the wild- 
breeze weaves 

Amidst the faded race of fallen leaves ; 

Which now its breath bears down, now 
tosses high, 

Beats to the earth, or wafts to middle sky. 

Such, and so varied, the precarious play 

Of fate with man, frail tenant of a day ! 
A nonymous. 

CHAP. XXVI. 

Necessity — thou best of peacemakers, 
As well as surest prompter of invention — 
Help us to composition ! — Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXVII. 

This is some creature of the ele- 
ments 

Most like your sea-gull. He can wheel 
and whistle 

His screaming song, e'en when the storm 
is loudest — 

Take for his sheeted couch the restless 
foam 

Of the wild wave-crest — slumber in the 
calm, 

And dally with the storm. Yet 'tis a gull, 

An arrant gull, with all this.— The Chief- 
tain. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

I fear the devil worst when gown and 

cassock, 
Or, in the lack of them, old Calvin's cloak, 
Conceals his cloven hoof. — Anonymous . 



cfrom %mtiht ghtrtoarfc. 
1823. 

SONG— COUNTY GUY. 

Ah ! County Guy, the hour is nigh, 

The sun has left the lea, 
The orange flower perfumes the bower, 

The breeze is on the sea. 
The lark, his lay who thrill'd all day, 

Sits hush'd his partner nigh ; 
Breeze, bird, and flower, confess the hour, 

But where is County Guy ? — 

The village maid steals through the shade, 
Her shepherd's suit to hear; 

To beauty shy, by lattice high, 
Sings high-born Cavalier. 

The star of Love, all stars above, 
Now reigns o'er earth and sky ; 

And high and low the influence know- 
But where is County Guy? — Chap. iv. 

MOTTOES. 
CHAP. XII. 
This is a lecturer so skill'd in policy, 
That (no disparagement to Satan's cun- 
ning) 
He well might read a lesson to the devil, 
And teach the old seducer new tempta- 
tions.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XIV. 

I see thee yet, fair France — thou favour'd 

land 
Of art and nature— thou art still before me : 
Thy sons, to whom their labour is a sport, 
So well thy grateful soil returns its tribute ; 
Thy sun - burnt daughters, with their 

laughing eyes 
And glossy raven-locks. But, favour'd 

France, 
Thou hast had many a tale of woe to tell, 
In ancient times as now. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. xv. 

He was a son of Egypt, as he told me, 

And one descended from those dread 
magicians, 

Who waged rash war, when Israel dwelt 
in Goshen, 

With Israel and her Prophet — matching 
rod 

With his the sons of Levi's — and en- 
countering 

Jehovah's miracles with incantations, 

Till upon Egypt came the avenging Angel, 



And those proud sages wept for their 

first-born, 
As wept the unletter'd peasant. 

Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

Rescue or none, Sir Knight, I am your 
captive ; 

Deal with me what your nobleness sug- 
gests— 

Thinking the chance of war may one day 
place you 

Where I must now be reckon'd — i' the roll 

Of melancholy prisoners. — Anonymous. 

CHAP. xxv. 
No human quality is so well wove 
In warp and woof, but there's some flaw 

in it; 
I've known a brave man fly a shepherd's 

cur, 
A wise man so demean him, drivelling 

idiocy 
Had well-nigh been ashamed on't. For 

your crafty, 
Your worldly-wise man, he, above the rest, 
Weaves his own snares so fine, he's often 

caught in them. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXVI. 
When Princes meet, astrologers may 

mark it 
An ominous conjunction, full of boding, 
Like that of Mars with Saturn. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIX. 

Thy time is not yet out — the devil thou 

servest 
Has not as yet deserted thee. He aids 
The friends who drudge for him, as the 

blind man 
Was aided by the guide, who lent his 

shoulder 
O'er rough and smooth, until he reach'd 

the brink 
Of the fell precipice — then hurl'd him 

downward. — Old Play. 

CHAP. xxx. 
Our counsels waver like the unsteady bark, 
That reels amid the strife of meeting cur- 
rents.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Hold fast thy truth, young soldier. — 

Gentle maiden, 
Keep you your promise plight — leave age 

its subtleties, 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



441 



And gray-hair'd policy its maze of false- 
hood ; 
But be you candid as the morning sky, 
Ere the high sun sucks vapours up to 
stain it. — The Trial. 



<^rom %i Jlomm's <8HeII. 
1823. 

EPILOGUE 

TO THE DRAMA FOUNDED ON 
"ST. RONAN'S WELL." 

1824. 

"Alter the play, the following humorous 
address (ascribed to an eminent literary cha- 
racter! was spoken with infinite effect by Mr. 
Mackay in the character of Meg Dods." — 
Edinburgh Weekly Journal, gth June, 1824. 

Enter Meg Dods, encircled by a crowd of 

unruly boys, whom a Town s Officer 

is driving off. 

That's right, frieDd — drive the gaitlings 

back, 
And lend yon muckle ane a whack ; 
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack 

Sae proud and saucy, 
They scarce will let an auld wife walk 

Upon your causey. 

I've seen the day they would been scaur'd 
Wi' the Tolbooth, or wi" the Guard, 
Or maybe wud hae some regard 

For Jamie Laing* — 
The Water-hole f was right well wared 

On sic a gang. 

But whar's the gude Tolbooth % gane now? 
Whar's the auld Claught,§ wi' red and 

blue? 
Whar's Jamie Laing? and whar's John 
Doo?|| 

And whar's the Weigh-house? 
Deil hae't I see but what is new, 

Except the Playhouse. 



* Jamie Laing, head of the Edinburgh 
Police at that time. 

t Watch-hole. 

t The Tolbooth was the great Edinburgh 
Jail, pulled down in 1817. 

§ The Claught was the old Town Guard. 

|| John Doo, one of the Guard or Police. 



Yoursells are changed frae head to heel ; 
There's some that gar the causeway reel 
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel, 

And horses canterin', 
Wha's fathers daunder'd hame as weel 

Wi' lass and lantern. 

Mysell being in the public line, 

I look for howfs I kenn'd lang syne, 

Whar gentles used to drink gude wine, 

And eat cheap dinners ; 
But deil a soul gangs there to dine, 

Of saunts or sinners ! 

Fortune's^ and Hunter's gane, alas! 
And Bayle's is lost in empty space ; 
And now, if folk would splice a brace, 

Or crack a bottle, 
They gang to a new-fangled place 

They ca' a Hottle. 

The deevil hottle them for Meg ! 
They are sae greedy and sae gleg, 
That if ye're served but wi' an egg, 

(And that's puir pickin',) 
In comes a chiel, and makes a leg, 

And charges chicken ! 

"And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, 

' ' That brings your auld-warld clavers 

here !" 
Troth, if there's onybody near 

That kens the roads, 
I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer, 

He kens Meg Dods. 

I came a piece frae west o' Currie ; 
And, since I see you're in a hurry, 
Your patience I'll nae langer worry, 

But be sae crouse 
As speak a word for ane Will Murray, 

That keeps this house.** 

Plays are auld-fashion'd things, in truth, 
And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth ; 
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth, 

Or want of dramock, 
Although they speak but wi' their mouth, 

Not with their stamock. 

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry ; 
And surely to hae stooden sentry 
Ower this big house (that's far frae rent 
free,) 

For a lone sister, 



IT Fortune's, Hunter's, and Bayle's were 
taverns. 
•• The Edinburgh Theatre 



442 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



- 



Is claim as gude's to be a ventri* — 
How'st ca'd — loquister. 

Weel, sirs, gude-e'en, and have a care 

The bairns make fun o' Meg nae mair ; 

For gin they do, she tells you fair, 
And without failzie, 

As sure as ever ye sit there, 

She'll tell the Bailee. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. III. 

There must be government in all society — 

Bees have their Queen, and stag herds 
have their leader ; 

Rome had her Consuls, Athens had her 
Archons, 

And we, sir, have our Managing Com- 
mittee. — The Album of St. Ronaris. 

CHAP. XI. 

Nearest of blood should still be next in 

love; 
And when I see these happy children 

playing, 
While William gathers flowers for Ellen's 

ringlets, 
And Ellen dresses flies for William's angle, 
I scarce can think, that in advancing life, 
Coldness, unkindness, interest, or sus- 
picion, 
Will e'er divide that unity so sacred, 
Which Nature bound at birth. 

Anonymous. 
CHAP. XXXII. 
It comes — it wrings me in my parting 

hour, 
The long-hid crime — the well-disguised 

guilt. 
Bring me some holy priest to lay the 

spectre ! — Old Play. 

CHAP. xxxv. 

Sedet post equitem atra cura 

Still though the headlong cavalier, 
O'er rough and smooth, in wild career, 

Seems racing with the wind ; 
His sad companion — ghastly pale, 
And darksome as a widow's veil, 

Care — keeps her seat behind. — Horace. 

CHAP. XXXVIII. 

What sheeted ghost is wandering through 

the storm ? 
For never did a maid of middle earth 

* An allusion to the recent performances of 
Alexandre, the ventriloquist 



Choose such a time or spot to vent her 
sorrows. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXXIX. 

Here come we to our close — for that 
which follows 

Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery. 

Steep crags and headlong lins may court 
the pencil 

Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange 
adventures ; 

But who would paint the dull and fog- 
wrapt moor, 

In its long tract of sterile desolation ? 

Old Play. 



1824. 

As lords their labourers' hire delay, 
Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, 

Which, if far short of present pay, 
Still owns a debt and names a sum. 

Quit not the pledge, frail sufferer, then, 
Although a distant date be given ; 

Despair is treason towards man, 
And blasphemy to Heaven. 



LINES, 

ADDRESSED 

TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE,* 

THE CELEBRATED VENTRILOQUIST 
1824. 

Of yore, in old England, it was not 

thought good 
To carry two visages under one hood ; 



* "When Monsieur Alexandre, the cele- 
brated ventriloquist, was in Scotland, in 1824, 
he paid a visit to Abbotsford, where he enter- 
tained his distinguished host and the other 
visitors with his unrivalled imitations. Next 
morning, when he was about to depart, Sir 
Walter felt a good deal embarrassed as to the 
sort of acknowledgment he should offer ; but 
at length, resolving that it would probably be 
most agreeable to the young foreigner to be 
paid in professional coin, if in any, he stepped 
aside for a few minutes, and, on returning, 
presented him with this epigram." The lines 
were published in the Edinburgh Annual 
Register for 1824. 




bore trembled the father ; he spurr d thro' the wild, 
Clasping close to his bosom his shuddering child. 

The Erl-King 



What should folk say to you t who have 

faces such plenty, 
That from under one hood you last night 

show'd us twenty ! 
Stand forth, arch deceiver, and tell us in 

truth, 
Are you handsome or ugly, in age or in 

youth? 
Man, woman, or child— a dog or a mouse? 
Or are you, at once, each live thing in the 

house ? 
Each live thing did I ask?— each dead 

implement, too, 
A workshop in your person, — saw, chisel, 

and screw ! 
Above all, are you one individual ? I know 
You must be at least Alexandre and Co. 
But I think you're a troop— an assem- 
blage — a mob, 
And that 1, as the Sheriff, should take up 

the job ; 
And instead of rehearsing your wonders 

in verse, 
Must read you the Riot Act, and bid you 

disperse. 



THE DEATH OF KEELDAR. 

These stanzas were written for Hood's 
" Gem," 1828, and accompanied an engraving 
from Cooper's painting of the Death of Keel- 
dar. 

Up rose the sun o'er moor and mead ; 
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; 
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed, 

Career'd along the lea ; 
The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound, 
As if to match the gamesome hound ; 
His horn the gallant huntsman wound : 

They were a jovial three ! 

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, 
To wake the wild deer never came, 
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game 

On Cheviot's rueful day ; 
Keeldar was matchless in his speed, 
Than Tarras, ne'er was stauncher steed, 
A peerless archer, Percy Rede : 

And right dear friends were they. 

The chase engross'd their joys and woes, 
Together at the dawn they rose, 
Together shared the noon's repose, 

By fountain or by stream ; 
And oft, when evening skies were red, 
The heather was their common bed, 



Where each, as wildering fancy led, 
Still hunted in his dream. 

Now is the thrilling moment near, 
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear, 
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer, 

The signs the hunters know ; — 
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears, 
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears ; 
The restless palfrey paws and rears ; 

The archer strings his bow. 

The game's afoot ! — Halloo ! Halloo ! 
Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue :- 
But woe the shaft that erring flew — 

That e'er it left the string ! 
And ill betide the faithless yew ! 
The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, 
And gallant Keeldar's life blood true 

Has drench'd the gray-goose wing. 

The noble hound — he dies, he dies, 
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, 
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies, 

Without a groan or quiver. 
Now day may break and bugle sound, 
And whoop and halloo ring around, 
And o'er his couch the stag may bound, 

But Keeldar sleeps for ever. 

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, 

Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise, 

He knows not that his comrade dies, 

Nor what is death — but still 
His aspect hath expression drear 
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear, 
Like startled children when they hear 

Some mystic tale of ill. 
But he that bent the fatal bow, 
Can well the sum of evil know, 
And o'er his favourite, bending low, 

In speechless grief recline ; 
Can think he hears the senseless clay 
In unreproachful accents say, 
" The hand that took my life away, 

Dear master, was it thine ? 
" And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, 
Which sure some erring aim address'd, 
Since in your service prized, caress'd, 

I in your service die ; 
And you may have a fleeter hound, 
To match the dun-deer's merry bound, 
But by your couch will ne'er be found 

So true a guard as I." 
And to his last stout Percy rued 
The fatal chance ; for when- he stood 
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud, 

And fell amid the fray, 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



E'en with his dying voice he cried, 
" Had Keeldar but been at my side, 
Your treacherous ambush had been spied — 
I had not died to-day !" 

Remembrance of the erring bow 

Long since had join'd the tides which 

flow, 
Conveying human bliss and woe 

Down dark oblivion's river ; 
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest, 
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, 
And, in her Cooper's colours drest, 

The scene shall live for ever. 



1825. 

SONG— SOLDIER, WAKE. 



Soldier, wake — the day is peeping, 
Honour ne'er was wen in sleeping, 
Never when the sunbeams still 
Lay unreflected on the hill : 
'Tis when they are glinted back 
From axe and armour, spear and jack, 
That they promise future story 
Many a page of deathless glory. 
Shields that are the foeman's terror, 
Ever are the morning's mirror. 

II. 
Arm and up — the morning beam 
Hath call'd the rustic to his team, 
Hath call'd the faicner to the lake, 
Hath call'd the huntsman to the brake; 
The eaily student ponders o'er 
His dusty tomes of ancient lore. 
Soldier, wake— thy harvest, fame; 
Thy study, conquest ; war, thy game. 
Shield, that would be foeman's terror, 
Still should gleam the morning's mirror. 

in. 
Poor hire repays the rustic's pain ; 
More paltry still the sportsman's gain ; 
Vainest of all, the student's theme 
Ends in some metaphysic dream : 
Yet each is up, and each has toil'd 
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ; 
And each is eagerer in his aim 
Than he who barters life for fame. 
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror ! 
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror. 
Chap. xiv. 



SONG— THE TRUTH OF WOMAN. 
I. 

Woman's faith, and woman's trust — 
Write the characters in dust ; 
Stamp them on the running stream, 
Print them on the moon's pale beam, 
And each evanescent letter 
Shall be clearer, firmer, better, 
And more permanent, I ween, 
Than the thing those letters mean. 



I have strain'd the spider's thread 

"Gainst the promise of a maid ; 

I have weigh 'd a grain of sand 

'Gainst her plight of heart and hand ; 

I told my true love of the token, 

How her faith proved light, and her word 

was broken : 
Again her word and truth she plight, 
And I believed them again ere night. 

Chap. xx. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. II. 

In Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, 
With rapid clangour hurried far ; 

Each hill and dale the note rebounds, 
But when return the sons of war ! 

Thou, born of stern Necessity, 

Dull Peace ! the valley yields to thee, 
And owns thy melancholy sway. 

Welsh Poem. 

CHAP. VII. 

O, sadly shines the morning sun 

On leaguer'd castle wall, 
When bastion, tower, and battlement. 

Seem nodding to their fall.— Old Ballad. 

CHAP. XII. 

Now all ye ladies of fair Scotland, 
And ladies of England that happy would 
prove, 
Marry never for houses, nor marry for land. 
Nor marry for nothing but only love. 
Family Quarrels. 

CHAP. XIII. 
Too much rest is rust, 

There's ever cheer in changing; 
We tyne by too much trust, 

So we'll be up and ranging. — Old Song. 

CHAP. XVII. 

Ring out the merry bells, the bride ap- 
proaches ; 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



445 



The blush upon her cheek has shamed the 

morning, 
For that is dawning palely. Grant, good 

saints, 
These clouds betoken nought of evil omen ! 
Old Play. 
CHAP. XXVII. 

Julia. Gentle sir, 

You are our captive — but we'll use you so, 
That you shall think your prison joys may 

match 
Whate'er your liberty hath known of 
pleasure. 
Roderick. No, fairest, we have trifled 
here too long ; 
And, lingering to see your roses blossom, 
I've let my laurels wither. — Old Play. 



Jrum i\t if alismait. 
1825. 

AHRIMAN. 

Dark Ahriman, whom Irak still 
Holds origin of woe and ill ! 

When, bending at thy shrine, 
We view the world with troubled eye, 
Where see we 'neath the extended sky, 

An empire matching thine ! 

If the Benigner Power can yield 
A fountain in the desert field, 

Where weary pilgrims drink ; 
Thine are the waves that lash the rock, 
Thine the tornado's deadly shock, 

Where countless navies sink ! 

Or if He bid the soil dispense 
Balsams to cheer the sinking sense, 

How few can they deliver 
From lingering pains, or pang intense, 
Red Fever, spotted Pestilence, 

The arrows of thy quiver ! 

Chief in Man's bosom sits thy sway, 
And frequent, while in words we pray 

Before another throne, 
Whate'er of specious form be there, 
The secret meaning of the prayer 

Is, Ahriman, thine own. 

Say, hast thou feeling, sense, and form, 
Thunder thy voice, thy garments storm, 

As Eastern Magi say ; 
With sentient soul of hate and wrath, 
And wings to sweep thy deadly path, 

And fangs to tear thy prey ? 



Or art thou mix'd in Nature's source, 
An ever operating force, 

Converting good to ill ; 
An evil principle innate 
Contending with our better fate, 

And, oh ! victorious still ? 

Howe'er it be, dispute is vain. 

On all without thou hold'st thy reign, 

Nor less on all within ; 
Each mortal passion's fierce career, 
Love, hate, ambition, joy, and fear, 

Thou goadest into sin. 

Whene'er a sunny gleam appears, 
To brighten up our vale of tears, 

Thou art not distant far ; 
'Mid such brief solace of our lives, 
Thou whett'st our very banquet-knives 

To tools of death and war. — 

Thus, from the moment of our birth, 
Long as we linger on the earth, 

Thou rul'st the fate of men ; 
Thine are the pangs of life's last hour, 
And — who dare answer ?— is thy power, 

Dark Spirit ! ended Then?— Chap. iii. 

SONG OF BLONDEL-- THE 
BLOODY VEST. 

'Twas near the fair city of Benevent, 
When the sun was setting on bough and 

bent, 
And knights were preparing in bower and 

tent, 
On the eve of the Baptist's tournament ; 
When in Lincoln green a stripling gent, 
Well seeming a page by a princess sent, 
Wander'd the camp, and, still as he went, 
Enquired for the Englishman, Thomas a 

Kent. 

Far hath he fared, and farther must fare, 
Till he finds his pavilion nor stately nor 

rare, — 
Little save iron and steel was there ; 
And, as lacking the coin to pay armourer's 

care, 
With his sinewy arms to the shoulders 

bare, 
The good knight with hammer and file 

did repair 
The mail that to-morrow must see him 

wear, 
For the honour of Saint John and his lady 

fair. 



446 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



"Thus speaks my lady," the page said he. 
And the knight bent lowly both head and 

knee, 
"She is Benevent's Princess so high in 

degree, 
And thou art as lowly as knight may well 

be— 
He that would climb so lofty a tree, 
Or spring such a gulf as divides her from 

thee, 
Must dare some high deed, by which all 

men may see 
His ambition is back'd by his high chi- 

valrie. 

"Therefore thus speaks my lady," the fair 

page he said, 
And the knight lowly louted with hand 

and with head, 
"Fling aside the good armour in which 

thou art clad, 
And don thou this weed of her night-gear 

instead, 
For a hauberk of steel, a kirtle of thread : 
And charge, thus attired, in the tourna- 
ment dread, 
And fight as thy wont is where most 

blood is shed, 
And bring honour away, or remain with 

the dead." 

Untroubled in his look, and untroubled in 
his breast, 

The knight the weed hath taken, and 
reverently hath kiss'd : 

" Now blessed be the moment, the messen- 
ger be blest ! 

Much honour'd do I hold me in my lady's 
high behest ; 

And say unto my lady, in this dear night- 
weed dress' d, 

To the best arm'd champion I will not 
vail my crest ; 

But if I live and bear me well 'tis her turn 
to take the test." 

Here, gentles, ends the foremost fytte of 
the Lay of the Bloody Vest. 

FYTTE SECOND. 

The Baptist's fair morrow beheld gallant 

feats — 
There was winning of honour, and losing 

of seats — 
There was hewing with falchions, and 

splintering with staves, 
The victors won glory, the vanquish'd 

won graves. 



O, many a knight there fought bravely 

and well, 
Yet one was accounted his peers to excel, 
And 'twas he whose sole armour on body 

and breast, 
Seem'd the weed of a damsel when boune 

for her rest. 

There were some dealt him wounds that 

were bloody and sore, 
But others respected his plight, and for- 
bore. 
"It is some oath of honour," they said, 

' ' and I trow 
'Twere unknightly to slay him achieving 

his vow." 
Then the Prince, for his sake, bade the 

tournament cease, 
He flung down his warder, the trumpets 

sung peace ; 
And the judges declare, and competitors 

yield, 
That the Knight of the Night-gear was 

first in the field. 

The feast it was nigh, and the mass it was 

nigher, 
When before the fair Princess low louted 

a squire, 
And deliver'd a garment unseemly to 

view, 
With sword-cut and spear-thrust, all 

hack'd and pierced through ; 
All rent and all tatter'd, all clotted with 

blood, 
With foarn of the horses, with dust, and 

with mud, 
Not the point of that lady's small finger, 

I ween, 
Could have rested on spot was unsullied 

and clean. 

"This token my master, Sir Thomas a 

Kent, 
Restores to the Princess of fair Benevent : 
He that climbs the tall tree has won right 

to the fruit, 
He that leaps the wide gulf should prevail 

in his suit ; 
Through life's utmost peril the prize I 

have won, 
And now must the faith of my mistress be 

shown : 
For she who prompts knight on such 

danger to run, 
Must avouch his true service in front of 

the sun. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



447 



"•I restore,' says my master, 'the gar- 
ment I've worn, 
, And I claim of the Princess to don it in 

turn; 
For its stains and its rents she should prize 

it the more, 
Since by shame 'tis unsullied, though 

crimson'd with gore.' " 
Then deep blush'd the Princess — yet kiss'd 

she and press' d 
The blood-spotted robe to her lips and 

her breast. 
"Go tell my true knight, church and 

chamber shall show, 
If I value the blood on this garment or 

no." 

And when it was time for the nobles to 

pass 
In solemn procession to minster and mass, 
The first walk'd the Princess in purple 

and pall, 
But the blood-besmear'd night-robe she 

wore over all ; 
And eke, in the hall, where they all sat at 

dine, 
When she knelt to her father and proffer'd 

the wine, 
Over all her rich robes and state jewels 

she wore, 
That wimple unseemly bedabbled with 

gore. 

Then lords whisper' d ladies, as well you 

may think, 
And ladies replied, with nod, titter, and 

wink; 
And the Prince, who in anger and shame 

had look'd down, 
Turn'd at length to his daughter, and 

spoke with a frown : 
" Now since thou hast publish' d thy folly 

and guilt, 
E'en atone with thy hand for the blood 

thou hast spilt ; 
Yet sore for your boldness you both will 

repent, 
When you wander as exiles from fair 

Benevent." 

Then out spoke stout Thomas, in hall 

where he stood, 
Exhausted and feeble, but dauntless of 

mood: 
"The blood that I lost for this daughter 

of thine, 
I pour'd forth as freely as flask gives its 

wine; 



And if for my sake she brooks penance 
and blame, 

Do not doubt I will save her from suffer- 
ing and shame ; 

And light will she reck of thy princedom 
and rent, 

When I hail her, in England, the Coun- 
tess of Kent." — Chap. xxvi. 

MOTTOES. 
CHAP. IX. 

This is the Prince of Leeches; fever, 

plague, 
Cold rheum, and hot podagra, do but look 

on him, 
And quit their grasp upon the tortured 

sinews. — A nonymous. 

CHAP. XIII. 

You talk of Gaiety and Innocence ! 
The moment when the fatal fruit was 

eaten, 
They parted ne'er to meet again ; and 

Malice 
Has ever since been playmate to light 

Gaiety, 
From the first moment when the smiling 

infant 
Destroys the flower or butterfly he toys 

with, 
To the last chuckle of the dying miser, 
Who on his deathbed laughs his last to 

hear 
His wealthy neighbour has become a bank- 
rupt.— Old Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

'Tis not her sense — for sure, in that 
There's nothing more than common ; 

And all her wit is only chat, 
Like any other woman. — Song. 

CHAP. XVII. 

Were every hair upon his head a life, 
And every life were to be supplicated 
By numbers equal to those hairs quad- 
rupled, 
Life after life should out like waning stars 
Before the daybreak — or as festive lamps, 
Which have lent lustre to the midnight 

revel, 
Each after each are quench'd when guests 
depart I— Old Play. 
CHAP. XX. 
When beauty leads the lion in her toils, 
Such are her charms, he dare not raise his 
mane, 



448 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Far less expand the terror of his fangs. 
So great Alcides made his club a distaff, 
And spun to please fair Omphale\ 

Anonymous. 
CHAP. XXIII. 

'Mid these wild scenes Enchantment waves 

her hand 
To change the face of the mysterious land, 
Till the bewildering scenes around us seem 
The vain productions of a feverish dream. 
Astolpho, a Romance. 

CHAP. XXVI. 
The tears I shed must ever fall ! 

I weep not for an absent swain, 
For time may happier hours recall, 

And parted lovers meet again. 
I weep not for the silent dead, 

Their pains are past, their sorrows o'er, 
And those that loved their steps must tread, 

When death shall join to part no more. 
But worse than absence, worse than death, 

She wept her lover's sullied fame, 
And, fired with all the pride of birth, 

She wept a soldier's injured name. 

Ballad. 



INSCRIPTION 

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE 

REV. GEORGE SCOTT. 

1830. 

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale 
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. 
Art thou a parent ? — Reverence this bier — 
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. 
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start, 
With opening talents and a generous heart, 
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all 

thine own? — 
Lo ! here their end — a monumental stone ! 
But let submission tame each sorrowing 

thought, 
Heaven crown'd its champion ere the fight 

was fought. 



THE FORAY. 

1830. 

The last of our steers on our board has 

been spread, 
And the last flask of wine in our goblet is 
red: 



1 



Up ! up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords, 

and begone ! — 
There are dangers to dare, and there's 

spoil to be won. 

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with 

ours, 
For a space must be dim, as they gaze 

from the towers, 
And strive to distinguish through tempest 

and gloom, 
The prance of the steed, and the toss of 

the plume. 

The rain is descending, the wind rises 

loud ; 
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd 

with a cloud ; 
'Tis the better, my mates ! for the warder's 

dull eye 
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we 

are nigh. 

Our steeds are impatient ! I hear my blithe 

Gray! 
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in 

his neigh ; 
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of 

his mane 
Shall marshal your march through the 

darkness and rain. 

The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle 

has blown ; 
One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount 

and begone ! — 
To their honour and peace, that shall rest 

with the slain ! 
To their health and their glee, that see 

Teviot again ! 



MOTTOES. 



CHAP. I 

old man- 



-Thy daughter's 



Come forth, 
side 
Is now the fitting place for thee : 
When time hath quell'd the oak's bold 

pride, 
The youthful tendril yet may hide 
The ruins of the parent tree. 

CHAP. IV. 

Yon path of greensward 
Winds round by sparry grot and gay 

pavilion : 



There is no flint to gall thy tender foot, 
There's ready shelter from each breeze or 

shower. — 
But duty guides not that way— see her 

stand, 
With wand entwined with amaranth, near 

yon cliffs. 
Oft where she leads thy blood must mark 

thy footsteps, 
Oft where she leads thy head must bear 

the storm, 
And thy shrunk form endure heat, cold, 

and hunger ; 
But she will guide thee up to noble 

heights, 
Which he who gains seems native of the 

sky, 
While earthly things lie stretch'd beneath 

his feet, 

Diminish'd, shrunk, and valueless 

Anonymous. 
CHAP. X. 

Here we have one head 
Upon two bodies — your two-headed bul- 
lock 
Is but an ass to such a prodigy. 
These two have but one meaning, thought, 

and counsel ; 
And when the single noddle has spoke 

out, 
The four legs scrape assent to it. 

Old Play. 
CHAP. XIV. 

Deeds are done on earth 
Which have their punishment ere the earth 

closes 
Upon the perpetrators. Be it the working 
Of the remorse-stirr'd fancy, or the vision, 
Distinct and real, of unearthly being, 
All ages witness, that beside the couch 
Of the fell homicide oft stalks the ghost 
Of him he slew, and shows the shadowy 

wound. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XXIV. 

The deadliest snakes are those which, 
twined 'mongst flowers, 

Blend their bright colouring with the 
varied blossoms, 

Their fierce eyes glittering like the span- 
gled dewdrop ; 

In all so like what nature has most harm- 
less, 

That sportive innocence, which dreads no 
danger, 

Is poison'd unawares. — Old Play. 



GLEE FOR KING CHARLES. 

Bring the bowl which you boast, 

Fill it up to the brim ; 
'Tis to him we love most, 

And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 

And avaunt, ye base carles ! 
Were there death in the cup, 

Here's a health to King Charles ! 

Though he wanders through dangers, 

Unaided, unknown, 
Dependent on strangers, 

Estranged from his own ; 
Though 'tis under our breath, 

Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here's to honour and faith, 

And a health to King Charles ! 

Let such honours abound 

As the time can afford, 
The knee on the ground, 

And the hand on the sword ; 
But the time shall come round, 

When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
The loud trumpets shall sound, 

Here's a health to King Charles ! 

Chap. xx. 

ONE HOUR WITH THEE. 

An hour with thee! — When earliest day » 
Dapples with gold the eastern gray, 
Oh, what can frame my mind to bear 
The toil and turmoil, cark and care, 
New griefs, which coming hours unfold, 
And sad remembrance of the old? 
One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee ! When burning June 
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon ; 
What shall repay the faithful swain, 
i His labour on the sultry plain ; 
And more than cave or sheltering bough, 
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow ?— 
One hour with thee ! 

One hour with thee ! — When sun is set, 
O, what can teach me to forget 
The thankless labours of the day ; 
The hopes, the wishes, flung away ; 
The increasing wants and lessening gains, 
The master's pride, who scorns my 
pains? — 

One hour with thee ! 

Chap. xxvi. 
29 



45o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



$xonx the <f ah gTniir of $)«rilj. 

MOTTO. 

CHAP. I. 

"Behold the Tiber!" the vain Roman 

cried, 
Viewing the ample Tay from Baiglie's side; 
But where's the Scot that would the vaunt 

repay, 
And hail the puny Tiber for the Tay ? 
Anonymous. 

THE LAY OF POOR LOUISE. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The livelong day 
She roams from cot to castle gay ; 
And still her voice and viol say, 
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way, 

Think on Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The sun was high, 
It smirch'd her cheek, it dimm'd her eye. 
The woodland walk was cool and nigh, 
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie 
To cheer Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! The savage bear 
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair ; 
The wolves molest not paths so fair — 
But better far had such been there 

For poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! In woody wold 
She met a huntsman fair and bold ; 
His baldric was of silk and gold, 
And many a witching tale he told 

To poor Louise. 

Ah, poor Louise ! Small cause to pine 
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine ; 
For peace of mind, that gift divine, 
And spotless innocence, were thine, 

Ah, poor Louise ! 

Ah, poor Louise ! Thy treasure's reft ! 
I know not if by force or theft, 
Or part by violence, part by gift ; 
But misery is all that's left 

To poor Louise. 

Let poor Louise some succour have ! 
She will not long your bounty crave, 
Or tire the gay with warning stave — 
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave 
For poor Louise. 
• Chap. x. 



CHANT OVER THE. DEAD. 

Viewless Essence, thin and bare, 
Well-nigh melted into air ; 
Still with fondness hovering near 
The earthly form thou once didst wear. 

Pause upon thy pinion's flight, 
Be thy course to left or right ; 
Be thou doom'd to soar or sink, 
Pause upon the awful brink. 

To avenge the deed expelling 
Thee untimely from thy dwelling, 
Mystic force thou shalt retain 
O'er the blood and o'er the brain. 

When the form thou shalt espy 
That darken'd on thy closing eye ; 
When the footstep thou shalt hear, 
That thrill' d upon thy dying ear ; 

Then strange sympathies shall wake, 
The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall 

quake ; 
The wounds renew their clotter'd flood, 
And every drop cry blood for blood. 

Chap. xxii. 

YES, THOU MAY'ST SIGH. 

Yes, thou may'st sigh, 
And look once more at all around, 
At stream and bank, and sky and ground, 
Thy life its final course has found, 

And thou must die. 

Yes, lay thee down, 
And while thy struggling pulses flutter, 
Bid the gray monk his soul mass mutter 
And the deep bell its death-tone utter— 

Thy life is gone. 

Be not afraid. 
'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill, 
A fever fit, and then a chill ; 
And then an end of human ill, 

For thou art dead.— Chap. xxx. 

OH, BOLD AND TRUE. 

Oh, Bold and True, 

In bonnet blue, 

That fear or falsehood never knew ; 

Whose heart was loyal to his word, 

Whose hand was faithful to his sword — 

Seek Europe wide from sea to sea, 

But bonny Blue-cap still for me ! 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



451 



I've seen Almain's proud champions 

prance — 
Have seen the gallant knights of France, 
Unrivall'd with the sword and lance — 
Have seen the sons of England true 
Wield the brown bill, and bend the yew, 
Search Fiance the fair and England free, 
But bonny Blue-cap still for me ! 

Chap, xxxii. 



; r <Jtom %\\\\t of (§zxtx8tix\x, 

MOTTOES. 



■ I WAS one 

Who loved the greenwood bank and low- 
ing herd, 
The russet prize, the lowly peasant's life, 
Season'd with sweet content, more than 

the halls 
Where revellers feast to fever-height. Be- 
lieve me, 
There ne'er was poison mix'd in maple 
bowl . — A nonymous. 

CHAP. x. 
We know not when we sleep nor when we 

wake. 
Visions distinct and perfect cross our eye, 
Which to the slumberer seem realities ; 
And while they waked, some men have 

seen such sights 
As set at nought the evidence of sense, 
And left them well persuaded they were 

dreaming. — A nonymous. 

CHAP. XI. 

These be the adept's doctrines — every ele- 
ment 

Is peopled with its separate race of 
spirits.- 

The airy Sylphs on the blue ether float ; 1 

Deep in the earthy cavern skulks the 
Gnome ; 

The sea-green Naiad skims the ocean- 
billow, 

And the fierce fire is yet a friendly home 

To its peculiar sprite— the Salamander. 
Anonymous. 

CHAP. XXII. 

Tell me not of it— I could ne'er abide 
The mummery of all that forced civility. 
"Pray, seat yourself, my lord." With 
cringing hams 



The speech is spoken, and, with bended 

knee, 
Heard by the smiling courtier. — "Before 

you, sir? 
It must be on the earth then." Hang it 

all! 
The pride which cloaks itself in such poor 

fashion 
Is scarcely fit to swell a beggar's bosom. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XXX. 

Ay, this is he who wears the wreath of 

bays 
Wove by Apollo and the Sisters Nine, 
Which Jove's dread lightning scathes not. 

He hath doft 
The cumbrous helm of steel, and flung 

aside 
The yet more galling diadem of gold ; 
While, with a leafy circlet round his brows, 
He reigns the King of Lovers and of Poets. 

CHAP. XXXI. 

Want you a man 

Experienced in the world and its affairs ? 
Here he is for your purpose. He's a monk. 
He hath forsworn the world and all its 

work 
The rather that he knows it passing well, 
Special the worst of it ; for he's a monk. 
Old Play. 
CHAP. XXXIII. 

Toll, toll the bell ! 
Greatness is o'er, 
The heart has broke, 
To ache no more ; 
An unsubstantial pageant all — 
Drop o'er the scene the funeral-pall. 
Old Poem. 

CHAP. XXXV. 

Here's a weapon now, 

Shall shake a conquering general in his 
tent, 

A monarch on his throne, or reach a pre- 
late, 

However holy be his offices, 

E'en while he serves the altar. — Old Play. 

SONG OF THE JUDGES OF, THE 
SECRET TRIBUNAL. 

Measurers of good and evil, 

Bring the square, the line, the level, — 

Rear the altar, dig the trench, 

Blood both stone and ditch shall drench. 



452 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Cubits six, from end to end, 
Must the fatal bench extend, — 
Cubits six, from side to side, 
Judge and culprit must divide. 
On the east the Court assembles, 
On the west the Accused trembles — 
Answer, brethren, all and one, 
Is the ritual rightly done ? 
Answer. 
On life and soul, on blood and bone, 
One for all, and all for one, 
We warrant this is rightly done. 

Judges. 
How wears the night ? — Doth morning shine 
In early radiance on the Rhine ? 
What music floats upon his tide? 
Do birds the tardy morning chide ? 
Brethren, look out from hill and height, 
And answer true, How wears the night ? 

Answer. 
The night is old ; on Rhine's broad breast 
Glance drowsy stars which long to rest. 

No beams are twinkling in the east. 
There is a voice upon the flood, 
The stern still call of blood for blood : 

'Tis time we listen the behest. 

Chorus. 
Up, then, up ! When day's at rest, 

'Tis time that such as we are 
watchers ; 
Rise to judgment, brethren, rise ! 
Vengeance knows not sleepy eyes, 
He and night are matchers. 

Chap. xx. 



$xam €amxt ^obtxt of ^nrb. 

MOTTOES. 

CHAP. VI. 

Vain man, thou may'st esteem thy love as 

fair 
As fond hyperboles suffice to raise. 
She may be all that's matchless in her 

person, 
And all-divine in soul to match her body ; 
But take this from me — thou shalt never 

call her 
Superior to her sex, while one survives, 
And I am her true votary. — Old Play. 

CHAP. XVI. 

Strange ape of man! who loathes thee 

while he scorns thee ; 
Half a reproach to us and half a jest. 
What fancies can be ours ere we have 

pleasure 



In viewing our own form, our pride and 

passions, 
Reflected in a shape grotesque as thine ! 
Anonymous. 
CHAP. XVII. 

'Tis strange that, in the dark sulphureous 
mine, 

Where wild ambition piles its ripening 
stores 

Of slumbering thunder, Love will interpose 

His tiny torch, and cause the stern ex- 
plosion 

To burst, when the deviser's least aware. 
Anonymous. 
CHAP. XXV. 

Heaven knows its time ; the bullet has its 
billet, 

Arrow and javelin each its destined pur- 
pose; 

The fated beasts of Nature's lower strain 

Have each their separate task. — Old Play. 



MOTTOES. 

CHAP. XI. 

Where is he ? Has the deep earth swal- 
lowed him ? 
Or hath he melted like some airy phantom 
That shuns the approach of morn and the 

young sun ? 
Or hath he wrapt him in Cimmerian 

darkness, 
And pass'd beyond the circuit of the sight 
With things of the night's shadows ? 

Anonymous. 
CHAP. XIV. 

The way is long, my children, long and 

rough — 
The moors are dreary and the woods are 

dark; 
But he that creeps from cradle on to grave, 
Unskill'd save in the velvet course of 

fortune, 
Hath miss'd the discipline of noble hearts. 
Old Play. 

CHAP. XVIII. 

His talk was of another world — his bodi- 

ments 
Strange, doubtful, and mysterious ; those 

who heard him 
Listen'd as to a man in feverish dreams, 
Who speaks of other objects than the 

present, 
And mutters like to him who sees a vision. 
Old Play. 



FRAGMENTS, 

OF VERY EARLY DATE. 



BOTHWELL CASTLE. 
1799. 

When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers 

Are mellowing in the noon ; 
When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd 
towers 

The sultry breath of June ; 

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood, 

Must leave his channel dry ; 
And vainly o'er the limpid flood 

The angler guides his fly ; 

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes 

A wanderer thou hast been, 
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze 

In Blantyre's bowers of green, 

Full where the copsewood opens wild 

Thy pilgrim step hath staid, 
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled, 

O'erlook the verdant glade ; 

And many a tale of love and fear 
Hath mingled with the scene — 

Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear, 
And Bothwell's bonny Jean. 

O, if with rugged minstrel lays 

Unsated be thy ear, 
And thou of deeds of other days 

Another tale wilt hear. — 

Then all beneath the spreading beech, 

Flung careless on the lea, 
The Gothic muse the tale shall teach 

Of Bothwell's sisters three. 

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head, 

He blew his bugle round, 
Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood 

Has started at the sound. 

St. George's cross, o'er Both well hung, 

Was waving far and wide, 
And from the lofty turret flung 

Its crimson blaze on Clyde ; 

And rising at the bugle blast 
That mark'd the Scottish foe, 

Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, 
And bent the Norman bow. 



Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer rose, 

Proud Pembroke's Earl was he — 
While" ■ 



THE SHEPHERD'S TALE. 

1799. 
*#**♦* 

And ne'er but once, my son, he says, 

Was yon sad cavern trod, 
In persecution's iron days, 

When the land was left by God. 
From Bevvlie bog, with slaughter red, 

A wanderer hither drew, 
And oft he stopt and turn'd his head, 

As by fits the night wind blew ; 
For trampling round by Cheviot edge 

Were heard the troopers keen, 
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge 

The death-shot flash'd between. 
The moonbeams through the misty shower 

On yon dark cavern fell ; 
Through the cloudy night the snowgleam'd 
white, 

Which sunbeam ne'er could quell. 
' ' Yon cavern dark is rough and rude, 

And cold its jaws of snow ; 
But more rough and rude are the men of 
blood, 

That hunt my life below ! 

" Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell, 

Was hewn by demon's hands ; 
But I had lourd * melle with the fiends of 
hell, 

Than with Clavers and his band." 
He heard the deep-mouth'd bloodhound 
bark, 

He heard the horses neigh, 
He plunged him in the cavern dark, 

And downward sped his way. 
Now faintly down the winding path 

Came the cry of the faulting hound, 
And the mutter'd oath of baulked wrath 

Was lost in hollow sound. 



454 



scorrs poetical works. 



He threw him on the flinted floor, 

And held his breath for fear ; 
He rose and bitter cursed his foes, 

As the sounds died on his ear. 
" O bare thine arm, thou battling Lord, 

For Scotland's wandering band ; 
Dash from the oppressor's grasp the 

And sweep him from the land ! [sword, 
" Forget not thou thy people's groans 

From dark Dunnotter's tower, 
Mix'd with the sea-fowl's shrilly moans, 

And ocean's bursting roar ! 
" O, in fell Clavers' hour of pride, 

Even in his mightiest day, 
As bold he strides through conquest's tide, 

O stretch him on the clay ! 
' ' His widow and his little ones, 

O may their tower of trust 
Remove its strong foundation stones, 

And crush them in the dust ! " — 
"Sweet prayers to me," a voice replied, 

" Thrice welcome, guest of mine! " 
And glimmering on the cavern side, 

A light was seen to shine. 
An aged man, in amice brown, 

Stood by the wanderer's side, 
By powerful charm, a dead man's arm 

The torch's light supplied. 
From each stiff finger, stretch'd upright, 

Arose a ghastly flame, 
That waved not in the blast of night 

Which through the cavern came. 
O, deadly blue was that taper's hue, 

That flamed the cavern o'er, 
But more deadly blue was the ghastly hue 

Of his eyes who the taper bore. 
He laid on his head a hand like lead, 

As heavy, pale, and cold— 
" Vengeance be thine, thou guest of mine, 

If thy heart be firm and bold. 
"But if faint thy heart, and caitiff fear 

Thy recreant sinews know, 
The mountain erne thy heart shall tear, 

Thy nerves the hooded crow." 
The wanderer raised him undismay'd : 

" My soul, by dangers steel'd, 
Is stubborn as my border blade, 

Which never knew to yield. 
" And if thy power can speed the hour 

Of vengeance on my foes, 
Theirs be the fate from bridge and gate, 

To feed the hooded crows." 



The Brownie look'd him in the face, 
And his colour fled with speed — 

" I fear me," quoth he, " uneath it will be 
To match thy word and deed. 

" In ancient days when English bands 

Sore ravaged Scotland fair, 
The sword and shield of Scottish land 

Was valiant Halbert Kerr. 

"A warlock loved the warrior well, 

Sir Michael Scott by name, 
And he sought for his sake a spell to make. 

Should the Southern foemen tame. 

" 'Look thou,' he said, 'from Cessford 
head, 
As the July sun sinks low, 
And when glimmering white on Cheviot's 
height 
Thou shalt spy a wreath of snow, 
The spell is complete which shall bring to 
thy feet 
The haughty Saxon foe.' 

" For many a year wrought the wizard 
here, 
In Cheviot's bosom low, 
Till the spell was complete, and in July's 
heat 
Appear'd December's snow ; 
But Cessford's Halbert never came 
The wondrous cause to know. 

" For years before in Bowden aisle 

The warrior's bones had lain, 
And after short while, by female guile, 

Sir Michael Scott was slain. 

" But me and my brethren in this cell 

His mighty charms retain, — 
And he that can quell the powerful spell 

Shall o'er broad Scotland reign." 

He led -him through an iron door 

And up a winding stair, 
And in wild amaze did the wanderer gaze 

On the sight which open'd there. 

Through the gloomy night flash'd ruddy 
light — 

A thousand torches glow ; 
The cave rose high, like the vaulted sky, 

O'er stalls in double row. 

In every stall of that endless hall 
Stood a steed in barbing bright ; 

At the foot of each steed, all arm'd save 
the head, 
Lay stretch'd a stalwart knight. 



In each mail'd hand was a naked brand ; 

As they lay on the black bull's hide, 
Each visage stern did upwards turn, 

With eyeballs fix'd and wide. 

A launcegay strong, full twelve ells long, 

By every warrior hung ; 
At each pommel there, for battle yare, 

A Jedwood axe was slung. 

The casque hung near each cavalier ; 

The plumes waved mournfully 
At every tread which the wanderer made 

Through the hall of gramarye. 

The ruddy beam of the torches' gleam 

That glared the warriors on, 
Reflected light from armour bright, 

In noontide splendour shone. 

And onward seen in lustre sheen, 
Still lengthening on the sight, 

Through the boundless hall stood steeds 
in stall, 
And by each lay a sable knight. 

Still as the dead lay each horseman dread, 

And moved nor limb nor tongue ; 
Each steed stood stiff as an earthfast cliff, 

Nor hoof nor bridle rung. 
No sounds through all the spacious hall 

The deadly still divide, 
Save where echoes aloof from the vaulted 
roof 

To the wanderer's step replied. 

At length before his wondering eyes, 

On an iron column borne, 
Of antique shape, and giant size, 

Appear'd a sword and horn. 

" Now choose thee here," quoth his leader, 

"Thy venturous fortune try ; 
Thy woe and weal, thy boot and bale, 

In yon brand and bugle lie." 

To the fatal brand he mounted his hand, 
But his soul did quiver and quail ; 

The life-blood did start to his shuddering 
heart, 
And left him wan and pale. 

Thebrand he forsook, and the horn he took 

To 'say a gentle sound ; 
But so wild a blast from the bugle brast, 

That the Cheviot rock'd around. 

From Forth to Tees, from seas to seas, 

The awful bugle rung ; 
On Carlisle wall, and Berwick withal, 

To arms the warders sprung. 



With clank and clang the cavern rang, 
The steeds did stamp and neigh ; 

And loud was the yell as each warrior fell 
Sterte up with hoop and cry. 

"Woe, woe," they cried, "thou caitiff 
coward, 

That ever thou wert born ! 
Why drew ye not the knightly sword 

Before ye blew the horn !" 
The morning on the mountain shone, 

And on the bloody ground 
Hurl'd from the cave with shiver'd bone, 

The mangled wretch was found. 
And still beneath the cavern dread, 

Among the glidders grey, 
A shapeless stone with lichens spread 

Marks where the wanderer lay." 



CHEVIOT. 

1799- 
***** 
Go sit old Cheviot's crest below, 
And pensive mark the lingering snow 

In all his scaurs abide, 
And slow dissolving from the hill 
In many a sightless, soundless rill, , 

Feed sparkling Bowmont's tide. 
Fair shines the stream by bank and lea, 
As wimpling to the eastern sea 

She seeks Till's sullen bed, 
Indenting deep the fatal plain, 
Where Scotland's noblest, brave in vain, 

Around their monarch bled. 
And westward hills on hills you see, 
Even as old Ocean's mightiest sea 

Heaves high her waves of foam, 
Dark and snow-ridged from Cutsfeld's 

wold 
To the proud foot of Cheviot roll'd, 

Earth's mountain billows come. 



THE REIVER'S WEDDING. 
1802. 

O will ye hear a mirthful bourd? 

Or will ye hear of courtesie ? 
Or will hear how a gallant lord 

Was wedded to a gay ladye ? 



456 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



"Ca" out the kye," quo' the village herd, 

As he stood on the knowe, 
"Ca' this ane's nine and that ane's ten, 

And bauld Lord William's cow." — 

*' Ah ! by my sooth," quoth William then, 
' * And stands it that way now, 

When knave and churl have nine and ten, 
That the Lord has but his cow ? 

" I swear by the light of the Michaelmas 
moon, 

And the might of Mary high, 
And by the edge of my braidsword brown, 

They shall soon say Harden's kye." 

He took a bugle frae his side, 
With names carv'd o'er and o'er — 

Full many a chief of meikle pride 
That Border bugle bore — 

He blew a note baith sharp and hie, 
Till rock and water rang around — 

Three score of moss-troopers and three 
Have mounted at that bugle sound. 

The Michaelmas moon had enter'd then, 

And ere she wan the full, 
Ye might see by her light in Harden glen 

A bow o' kye and a bassen'd bull. 

And loud and loud in Harden tower 
The quaigh gaed round wi' meikle glee ; 

For the English beef was brought in bower 
And the English ale flow'd merrilie. 

And mony a guest from Teviotside 

And Yarrow's Braes was there ; 
Was never a lord in Scotland- wide 
♦ That made more dainty fare. 

They ate, they laugh'd, they sang and 
quaff 'd, 

Till nought on board was seen, 
When knight and squire wereboune to dine, 

. But a spur of silver sheen. 

Lord William has ta'en his berry brown 
steed — 

A sore shent man was he ; 
" Wait ye, my guests, a little speed — 

Weel feasted ye shall be." 

He rode him down by Falsehope burn, 

His cousin dear to see, 
With him to take a riding turn — 

Wat-draw-the-sword was he. 

And when he came to Falsehope glen, 

Beneath the trysting-tree, 
On the smooth green was carved plain, 

" To Lochwood bound are we." 



" O if they be gane to dark Lochwood 

To drive the Warden's gear, 
Betwixt our names, I ween, there's feud ; 

I'll go and have my share : 

" For little reck I for Johnstone's feud, 

The Warden though he be." 
So Lord William is away to dark Loch- 
wood, 

With riders barely three. 

The Warden's daughters in Lochwood sate, 

Were all both fair and gay, 
All save the Lady Margaret, 

And she was wan and wae. 

The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin, 
And Grace was bauld and braw ; 

But the leal-fast heart her breast within 
It weel was worth them a'. 

Her father 's pranked her sisters twa 

With meikle joy and pride ; 
But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's 
wa' — 

She ne'er can be a bride. 

On spear and casque by gallants gent 
Her sisters' scarfs were borne, 

But never at tilt or tournament 
Were Margaret's colours worn 

Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower, 

But she was left at hame 
To wander round the gloomy tower, 

And sigh young Harden's name. 

' ' Of all the knights, the knight most fair, 

From Yarrow to the Tyne," 
Soft sigh'd the maid, "is Harden's heir, 

But ne'er can he be mine ; 

" Of all the maids, the foulest maid 

From Teviot to the Dee, 
Ah ! " sighing sad, that lady said, 

" Can ne'er young Harden's be." — 

She looked up the briery glen, 

And up the mossy brae, 
And she saw a score of her father's men 

Yclad in the Johnstone grey. 

O fast and fast they downwards sped 

The moss and briers among, 
And in the midst the troopers led 
• A shackled knight along. 



DRAMATIC PIECES 



HALIDON HILL; 

A DRAMATIC SKETCH FROM SCOTTISH HISTORY. 



Pceface. 

The subject is to be found in Scottish history; but not to overload so slight a publication with 
antiquarian research, or quotations from obscure chronicles, it may be sufficient to refer the 
reader to Pinkerton's History of Scotland, vol. i. p. 72. 

The Regent of the sketch is a character purely imaginary. The tradition of the Swinton 
family, which still survives in a lineal descent, and to which the author has the honour to be 
related, avers, that the Swinton who fell at Homildon had slain Gordon's father; which seems 
sufficient ground for adopting that circumstance into the following dramatic sketch, though it is 
rendered improbable by other authorities. 

If any reader will take the trouble of looking at Froissart, Fordun, or other historians of the 
period, he will find, that the character of the Lord of Swinton, for strength, courage, and con- 
duct, is by no means exaggerated. 

Abbotsford, 1822. W. S. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

SCOTTISH. 
The Regent of Scotland. 
Gordon, 
Swinton, 
Lennox, 
Sutherland, 
Ross, 

Maxwell, 
Johnstone, 
Lindesay, 



Scottish chiefs and 
Nobles. 



Adam de Vipont, a Knight Templar. 

The Prior of Maison-Dieu. 

Reynald, Swinton s Squire. 

Hob Hattely, a Border Moss-Trooper. 

Heralds. 

ENGLISH. 



King Edward III. 

Chandos, 

Percy, 

Ribaumont, 

The Abbot of Walthamstow. 



English and Norman 
Nobles. 



ACT I.— Scene I. 

The northern side of the eminence ofHali- 
don. The back Scene represents the 
summit of the ascent, occupied by the 
Rear-guard of the Scottish army. Bodies 
of armed Men appear as advancing 
from different points, to join the main 
Body. 
Enter De Vipont and the Prior of 

Maison-Dieu. 
Vip. No farther, Father— here I need 
no guidance — 



I have already brought your peaceful step 
Too near the verge of battle. 

Pri. Fain would I see you join some 

Baron's banner, 
Before I say farewell. The honour'd 

sword 
That fought so well in Syria, should not 

wave 
Amid the ignoble crowd. 
Vip. Each spot is noble in a pitched 

field, 
So that a man has room to fight and fall 

on't. 



45 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



But I shall find out friends. 'Tis scarce 
twelve years 

Since I left Scotland for the wars of Pa- 
lestine, 

And then the flower of all the Scottish 
nobles 

Were known to me; and I, in my degree, 

Not all unknown to them. 

Pel Alas! there have been changes 
since that time ! 

The Royal Bruce, with Randolph, Dou- 
glas, Grahame, 

Then shook in field the banners which 
now moulder 

Over their graves i' the chancel. 
VlP. And thence comes it, 

That while I look'd on many a well-known 
crest 

And blazon'd shield, as hitherward we 
came, 

The faces of the Barons who display'd 
them 

Were all unknown to me. Brave youths 
they seem'd ; 

Yet, surely, fitter to adorn the tilt-yard, 

Than to be leaders of a war. Their fol- 
lowers, 

Young like themselves, seem like them- 
selves unpractised — 

Look at their battle-rank. 
Pri. I cannot gaze on't with undazzled 
eye, 

So thick the rays dart back from shield 
and helmet, 

And sword and battle-axe, and spear and 
pennon. 

Sure 'tis a gallant show ! The Bruce him- 
self 

Hath often conquer'd at the head of 
fewer 

And worse appointed followers. 

VlP. Ay, but 'twas Bruce that led them. 
Reverend Father, 

'Tis not the falchion's weight decides a 
combat ; 

It is the strong and skilful hand that 
wields iC 

111 fate, that we should lack the noble 
King, 

And all his champions now ! Time call'd 
them not, 

For when I parted hence for Palestine, 

The brows of most were free from grizzled 
hair. 
Pri. Too true, alas! But well you 
know, in Scotland 



Few hairs arc silver'd underneath the 

helmet ;• 
'Tis cowls like mine which hide them. 

'Mongst the laity, 
War's the rash reaper, who thrusts in his 

sickle 
Before the grain is white. In threescore 

years 
And ten, which I have seen, I have out- 
lived 
Well-nigh two generations of our nobles. 
The race which holds yon summit is the 
third. 
Vip. Thou mayst outlive them also. 
Pri. Heaven forfend ! 

My prayer shall be, that Heaven will 

close my eyes, 
Before they look upon the wrath to come. 
Vip. Retire, retire, good Father!— 
Pray for Scotland — 
Think not on me. Here comes an ancient 

friend, 
Brother in arms, with whom to-day I'll 

join me. 
Back to your choir, assemble all your 

brotherhood, 
And weary Heaven with prayers for 
victory. 
Pri. Heaven's blessing rest with thee, 
Champion of Heaven, and of thy suffering 
country ! 
{Exit Prior. Vipont draws a 
little aside and lets down the 
beaver of his helmet. 

Enter Swinton, followed by Reynald 
and others, to whom he speaks as he 
enters. 

Swi. Halt here, and plant my pennon, 
till the Regent 

Assign our band its station in the host. 
Rey. That must be by the Standard. 
We have had 

That right since good Saint David's reign 
at least. 

Fain would I see the Marcher would dis- 
pute it. 
Swi. Peace, Reynald ! Where the 
general plants the soldier, 

There is his place of honour, and there only 

His valour can win worship. Thou'rt of 
those, 

Who would have war's deep art bear the 
wild semblance 

Of some disorder'd hunting, where, pell- 
mell, 



HAL1D0N HILL. 



459 



Each trusting to the swiftness of his horse, 
Gallants press on to see the quarry fall. 
Yon steel-clad Southrons, Reynald, are 

no deer ; 
And England's Edward is no stag at bay. 
ViP. [advancing). There needed not, to 

blazon forth the Swinton, 
His ancient burgonet, the sable Boar 
Chain'd to the gnarl'd oak, — nor his proud 

step, 
Nor giant stature, nor the ponderous mace, 
Which only he, of Scotland's realm, can 

wield : 
His discipline and wisdom mark the leader, 
As doth his frame the champion. Hail, 

brave Swinton ! 
Swi. Brave Templar, thanks! Such 

your cross'd shoulder speaks you ; 
But the closed visor, which conceals your 

features 
Forbids more knowledge. Umfraville, 

perhaps — 
ViP. [f inclosing his helmet). No; one 

less worthy of our sacred Order. 
Yet, unless Syrian suns have scorch'd my 

features 
Swart as my sable visor, Alan Swinton 
"Will welcome Symon Vipont. 
Swi. (embracing him). As the blithe 

reaper 
Welcomes a practised mate, when the 

ripe harvest 
Lies deep before him, and the sun is 

high! 
Thou'lt follow yon old pennon, wilt thou 

not? 
Tis tatter'd since thou saw'st it, and the 

Boar-heads 
Look as if brought from off some Christmas 

board, 
Where knives had notch'd them deeply. 
Vip. Have with them, ne'ertheless. 

The Stuart's Chequer, 
The Bloody Heart of Douglas, Ross's 

Lymphads, 
Sutherland's Wild-cats, nor the royal 

Lion, 
Rampant in golden tressure, wins me from 

them. ' 
We'll back the Boar-heads bravely. I see 

round them 
A chosen band of lances — some well 

known to me. 
Where's the main body of thy followers ? 
Swi. Symon de Vipont, thou dost see 

them all 



That Swinton's bugle-horn can call to 

battle, 
However loud it rings. There's not a boy 
Left in my halls, whose arm has strength 

enough 
To bear a sword — there's not a man be- 
hind, 
However old, who moves without a staff. 
Striplings and graybeards, every one is 

here, 
And here all should be — Scotland needs 

them all ; 
And more and better men, were each a 

Hercules, 
And yonder handful centupled. 
Vip. A thousand followers — such, with 

friends and kinsmen, 
Allies and vassals, thou wert wont to lead — 
A thousand followers shrunk to sixty 

lances 
In twelve years' space? — And thy brave 

sons, Sir Alan ? 
Alas ! I fear to ask. 
Swi. All slain, De Vipont. In my empty 

home 
A puny babe lisps to a widow' d mother, 
' ' Where is my grandsire ! wherefore do 

you weep?" 
But for that prattler, Lyulph's house is 

heirless. 
I'm an old oak, from which the foresters ' 
Have hew'd four goodly boughs, and left 

beside me 
Only a sapling, which the fawn may crush 
As he springs over it. 
ViP. All slain?— alas! 
Swi. Ay, all, De Vipont. And their 

attributes, 
John with the Long Spear— Archibald 

with the Axe — 
Richard the Ready— and my youngest 

darling, 
My Fair-hair'd William— do but now 

survive 
In measures which the gray-hair'd min- 
strels sing, 
When they make maidens weep. 
Vip. These wars with England, they 

have rooted out 
The flowers of Christendom. Knights, 

who might win 
The sepulchre of Christ from the rude 

heathen, 
Fall in unholy warfare ! 
Swi. Unholy warfare? ay, well hast 

thou named it : 



i in i ■! r r inn i 



460 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



But not with England — would her cloth- 
yard shafts 
Had bored their cuirasses ! Their lives 

had been 
Lost like their grandsire's, in the bold 

defence 
Of their dear country— but in private feud 
With the proud Gordon, fell my Long- 

spear'd John, 
He with the Axe, and he men call'd the 

Ready, 
Ay, and my Fair-hair'd Will — the Gordon's 

wrath 
Devour'd my gallant issue. 
Vip. Since thou dost weep, their death 

is unavenged ? 
Swi. Templar, what think'st thou me ? 

See yonder rock, 
From which the fountain gushes — is it less 
Compact of adamant, though waters flow 

from it? 
Firm hearts have moister eyes. — They are 

avenged ; 
I wept not till they were — till the proud 

Gordon 
Had with his life-blood dyed my father's 

sword, 
In guerdon that he thinn'd my father's 

lineage, 
And then I wept my sons ; and, as the 

Gordon 
Lay at my feet, there was a tear for him, 
Which mingled with the rest. We had 

been friends, 
Had shared the banquet and the chase to- 
gether, 
Fought side by side, — and our first cause 

of strife, 
Woe to the pride of both, was but a light 

one ! 
Vip. You are at feud, then, with the 

mighty Gordon? 
Swi. At deadly feud. Here in this 

Border-land, 
Where the sire's quarrels descend upon the 

son, 
As due a part of his inheritance, 
As the strong castle and the ancient blazon, 
Where private Vengeance holds the scales 

of justice, 
Weighing each drop of blood as scrupu- 
lously 
As Jews or Lombards balance silver pence, 
Not in this land, 'twixt Solvvay and Saint 

Abb's, 
Rages a bitterer feud than mine and theirs, 



The Swinton and the Gordon. 

Vip. You, with some threescore lances 

— and the Gordon 
Leading a thousand followers. 
Swi. You rate him far too low. Since 

you sought Palestine, 
He hath had grants of baronies and lord- 
ships 
In the far-distant North. A thousand 

horse 
His southern friends and vassals always 

number'd. 
Add Badenoch kerne, and horse from Dey 

and Spey, 
He'll count a thousand more. — And now, 

De Vipont, 
If the Boar-heads seem in your eyes less 

worthy 
For lack of followers — seek yonder stand- 
ard — 
The bounding Stag, with a brave host 

around it ; 
There the young Gordon makes his earliest 

field, 
And pants to win his spurs. His father's 

friend, 
As well as mine, thou wert — go, join his 

pennon, 
And grace him with thy presence. 

Vip. When you were friends, I was the 

friend of both, 
And now I can be enemy to neither ; 
But my poor person, though but slight 

the aid, 
Joins on this field the banner of the two 
Which hath the smallest following. 
Swi. Spoke like the generous Knight, 

who gave up all, 
Leading and lordship, in a heathen land 
To fight, a Christian soldier ! Yet, in 

earnest, 
I pray, De Vipont, you would join the 

Gordon 
In this high battle. 'Tis a noble youth, — 
So fame doth vouch him, — amorous, 

quick, and valiant ; 
Takes knighthood, too, this day, and well 

may use 
His spurs too rashly in the wish to win 

them. 
A friend like thee beside him in the fight, 
Were worth a hundred spears, to rein his 

valour 
And temper it with prudence: — 'tis the 

aged eagle 
Teaches his brood to gaze upon the sun, 



HA LID ON HILL. 



461 



With eye undazzled. 

Vip. Alas! brave Swinton ! Would'st 
thou train the hunter 

That soon must bring thee to the bay ? 
Your custom, 

Your most unchristian, savage, fiend-like 
custom, 

Binds Gordon to avenge his father's death. 
Swi. Why, be it so! I look for nothing 
else : 

My pare was acted when I slew his father, 

Avenging my four sons — Young Gordon's 
sword, 

If it should find my heart, can ne'er in- 
flict there 

A pang so poignant as his father's did. 

But I would perish by a noble hand, 

And such will his be if he bear him nobly, 

Nobly and wisely on this field of Halidon. 

Enter a Pursuivant. 

Pur. Sir Knights, to council ! — 'tis the 

Regent's order, 
That knights and men of leading meet 

him instantly 
Before the royal standard. Edward's army 
Is seen from the hill summit. 
Swi. Say to the Regent, we obey his 

orders^ {Exit PURSUIVANT. 

[To Reynald.] Hold thou my casque, 

and furl my pennon up 
Close to the staff. I will not show my 

crest, 
Nor standard, till the common foe shall 

challenge them. 
I'll wake no civil strife, nor tempt the 

Gordon 
With aught that's like defiance. 
Vip. Will he not know your features? 
Swr. He never saw me. In the distant 

North, 
Against his will, 'tis said, his friends de- 

tain'd him 
During his nurture — caring not, belike, 
To trust a pledge so precious near the 

Boar- tusks. 
It was a natural but needless caution ; 
I wage no war with children, for I think 
Too deeply on mine own. 
Vip. I have thought on it, and will see 

the Gordon 
As we go hence to council. I do bear 
A cross, which binds me to be Christian 

priest, 
As well as Christian champion. God may 

grant. 



That I, at once his father's friend and 
yours, 

May make some peace betwixt you. 
Swi. When that your priestly zeal, and 
knightly valour, 

Shall force the grave to render up the dead. 
[Exeunt severally. 
Scene II. 

The Summit of Halidon Hill, before the 
Regent's Tent. The Royal Standard 
of Scotland is seen in the background, 
with the Pennons and Banners of the 
principal Nobles around it. 

Council of Scottish Nobles and Chiefs. 
Sutherland, Ross, Lennox, Max- 
well, and other Nobles of the highest 
rank, are close to the Regent's person, 
and i?i the act of keen debate. VlPONT 
■with GORDON and others rem a t n 
grouped at some distance on the right 
hand of the Stage. On the left, stand- 
ing also apart, is SvviNTON, alone and 
bare-headed. The Nobles are dressed 
in Highland or LoivLind habits, as his- 
torical coslu7?ie requires. Trumpets, 
Heralds, &c. are in attendance. 

Len. Nay, Lordings, put no shame 

upon my counsels. 
I did but say, if we retired a little, 
We should have fairer field and better 

vantage. 
I've seen King Robert — ay, The Bruce 

himself — 
Retreat six leagues in length, and think 

no shame on't. 
Reg. Ay, but King Edward sent a 

haughty message, 
Defying us to battle on this field, 
This very hill of Halidon ; if we leave it 
Unfought withal, it squares not with our 

honour. 
Swi. {apart). A perilous honour that 

allows the enemy, 
And such an enemy as this same Edward, 
To choose our field of battle ! He knows 

how 
To make our Scottish pride betray its 

master 
Into the pitfall. 

{During this speech the delate among 
the Nobles is continued. 
Suth. {aloud). We will not back one 

furlong — not one yard, 
No, nor one inch; where'er we find the 

foe, 



462 



SCOTT'S POE TIC A L WORKS. 



Or where the foe finds us, there will we 

fight him. 
Retreat will dull the spirit of our followers, 
Who now stand prompt for battle. 

Ross. My Lords, methmlcs great Mor- 

archat* has doubts, 
That, if his Northern clans once turn the 

seam 
Of their check'd hose behind, it will be 

hard 
To halt and rally them. 

Suth. Say'st thou, Mac Donnell?— 

Add another falsehood, 
And name when Morarchat was coward 

or traitor? 
Thine island race, as chronicles can tell, 
Were oft affianced to the Southron cause ; 
Loving the weight and temper of their 

gold, 
More than the weight and temper of their 

steel. 
Reg. Peace, my lords, ho. 
Ross. (throwing dozun his glove.) 
MacDonnell will not peace ! There lies 

my pledge, 
Proud Morarchat, to witness thee a liar. 
Max. Brought I all Nithsdale from the 

Western Border ; 
Left I my towers exposed to foraying 

England, 
And thieving Annandale, to see such mis- 
rule ? 
John. Who speaks of Annandale ? 
Dare Maxwell slander 
The gentle House of Lochwood? + 

Reg. Peace, Lordings, once again. We 

represent 
The Majesty of Scotland — in our presence 
Brawling is treason. ! 
Suth. Were it in presence of the King 

himself, 
What should prevent my saying 

Enter Lindesay. 

Lin. You must determine quickly. 

Scarce a mile 
Parts our vanguard from Edward's. On 

the plain 
Bright gleams of armour flash through 

clouds of dust, 
Like stars through frost-mist — steeds 

neigh, and weapons clash — 

* Morarchate is the ancient Gaelic designa- 
tion of the Earls of Sutherland. 

t Lochwood Castle was the ancient seat of 
the Johnstones, Lords of Annandale. 



And arrows soon will whistle — the worst 

sound 
That waits on English war. — You must 

determine. 
Reg. We are determined. We will 

spare proud Edward 
Half of the ground that parts us. — On- 
ward, Lords ; 
Saint Andrew strike for Scotland ! We 

will lead 
The middle ward ourselves, the Royal 

Standard 
Display'd beside us; and beneath its 

shadow 
Shall the young gallants, whom we knight 

this day, 
Fight for their golden spurs. — Lennox, 

thou'rt wise, 
And wilt obey command — lead thou the 

rear. 
Len. The rear ?— why I the rear ? The 

van were fitter 
For him who fought abreast with Robert 

Bruce. 
Swi. {apart). Discretion hath forsaken 

Lennox too ! 
The wisdom he was forty years in gathering 
Has left him in an instant. 'Tis contagious 
Even to witness frenzy. 
Suth. The Regent hath determined 

well. The rear 
Suits him the best who counsell'd our re- 
treat. 
Len. Proud Northern Thane, the van 

were soon the rear, 
Were thy disorder'd followers planted 

there. 
Suth. Then, for that very word I make 

a vow, 
By my broad Earldom, and my father's 

soul, 
That, if I have not leading of the van, 
I will not fight to-day ! 
Ross. Morarchat ! thou the leading of 

the van ! 
Not whilst MacDonnell lives. 
Swi. [apart). Nay, then a stone would 

speak. 
{Addresses the Regent.] May't please 

your Grace, 
And you, great Lords, to hear an old 

man's counsel, 
That hath seen fights enow. These open 

bickerings 
Dishearten all our host. If that your 

Grace 



HA LID ON HILL. 



463 



With these great Earls and Lords must 

needs debate, 
Let the closed tent conceal your disagree- 
ment ; 
Else 'twill be said, ill fares it with the 

flock, 
If shepherds wrangle when the wolf is 

nigh. 
Reg. The old Knight counsels well. 

Let every Lord 
Or Chief, who leads five hundred men or 

more, 
Follow to council — others are excluded — 
We'll have no vulgar censurers of our 

conduct — [Looking at Swintox. 
Young Gordon, your high rank and 

numerous following 
Give you a seat with us, though yet un- 

knighted. 
Gordon. I pray you, pardon me. My 

youth's unfit 
To sit in council, when that Knight's 

gray hairs 
And wisdom wait without. 

Reg. Do as you will; we deign not 

bid you twice. 
[The Regent, Ross, Suther- 
land, Lennox, Maxwell, 
&=c. e?iter the Tent. The rest re- 
main grouped about the Stage. 
GOR. (observing S\v I.) That helmetless 

old Knight, his giant stature, 
His awful accents of rebuke and wisdom, 
Have caught my fancy strangely. He 

doth seem 
Like to some vision'd form which I have 

dream 'd of, 
But never saw with waking eyes till now. 
I will accost him. 

Vip. Pray you, do not so ; 
Anon I'll give you reason why you should 

not. 

There's other work in hand 

Gor. I will but ask his name. There's 

in his presence 
Something that works upon me like a 

spell, 
Or like the feeling made my childish ear 
Dote upon tales of superstitious dread, 
Attracting while they chill'd my heart with 

fear. 
Now, born the Gordon, I do feel right well 
I'm bound to fear nought earthly — and I 

fear nought. 
Ill know who this man is 

[AcCOStS SWINTON. 



Sir Knight, I pray you, of your gentle 

courtesy, 
To tell your honour' d -name. I am 

ashamed, 
Being unknown in arms, to say that mine 
Is Adam Gordon. 

Swinton (shows emotion, but instantly 

subdues it). It is a name that sound- 

eth in my ear 
Like to a death-knell — ay, and like the call 
Of the shrill trumpet to the mortal lists ; 
Yet, 'tis a name which ne'er hath been 

dishonour'd, 
And never will, I trust— most surely never 
By such a youth as thou. 
Gor. There's a mysterious courtesy in 

this, 
, And yet it yields no answer to my question. 
I trust you hold the Gordon not unworthy 
To know the name he asks ? 

Swi. Worthy of all that openness and 

honour 
May show to friend or foe — but, for my 

name, 
Vipont will show it you ; and, if it sounds 
Harsh in your ear, remember that it knells 

there 
But at your own request. This day, at 

least, 
Though seldom wont to keep it in con- 
cealment, 
As there's no cause I should, you had not 

heard it. 

Gor. This strange 

VlP. The mystery is needful. Follow 

me. [ They retire behind the side scene. 
Swr. (looking after them). 'Tis a brave 

youth. How blush'd his noble cheek, 
While youthful modesty, and the embar- 
rassment 
Of curiosity, combined with wonder, 
And half suspicion of some slight intended, 
All mingled in the flush : but soon 'twill 

deepen 
Into revenge's glow. How slow is 

Vipont ! — 
I wait the issue, as I've seen spectators 
Suspend the motion even of the eyelids, 
When the slow gunner, with his lighted 

match, 
Approach'd the charged cannon, in the act 
To waken its dread slumbers.— Now 'tis 

out; 
He draws his sword, and rushes towards 

me, 
Who will not seek nor shun him. 



464 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter Gordon, withheld by Vipont. 

Vip. Hold, for the sake of Heaven ! 

O, for the sake 
Of your dear country, hold! — Has Swin- 

ton slain your father, 
And must you, therefore, be yourself a 

parricide, 
And stand recorded as the selfish traitor, 
Who in her hour of need, his country's 

cause 
Deserts, that he may wreak a private 

wrong? 
Look to yon banner — that is Scotland's 

standard ; 
Look to the Regent— he is Scotland's 

general ; 
Look to the English — they are Scotland's 

foemen ! 
Bethink thee, then, thou art a son of 

Scotland, 
And think on nought beside. 

Gor. He hath come here to brave me! 

— Off! unhand me ! — 
Thou canst not be my father's ancient 

friend, 
That stand'st 'twixt me and him who slew 

my father. 
Vip. You know not Swinton. Scarce 

one passing thought 
Of his high mind was with you ; now, his 

soul 
Is fix'd on this day's battle. You might 

slay him 
At unawares, before he saw your blade 

drawn, — 
Stand still, and watch him close. 

Enter Maxwell from the tent. 

Swi. How go our councils, Maxwell, 

may I ask? 
Max. As wild, as if the very wind and 
sea 

With every breeze and every billow bat- 
tled 

For their precedence. 
Swr. Most sure they are possess'd ! 
Some evil spirit, 

To mock their valour, robs them of dis- 
cretion. 

Fie, fie upon 't! — O, that Dunfermline's 
tomb 

Could render up The Bruce ! that Spain's 
red shore 

Could give us back the good Lord James 
of Douglas ! 



Or that fierce Randolph, with his voice of 
terror, 

Were here, to awe these brawlers to sub- 
mission ! 
Vip. to Gor. Thou hast perused him 

at more leisure now. 
Gor. I see the giant form which all 
men speak of, 

The stately port — but not the sullen eye, 

Not the bloodthirsty look, that should 
belong 

To him that made me orphan. I shall 
need 

To name my father twice ere I can strike 

At such gray hairs, and face of such com- 
mand ; 

Yet my hand clenches on my falchion hilt, 

In token he shall die. 
Vip. Need I again remind you, that the 
place 

Permits not private quarrel? 
Gor. I'm calm. I will not seek— nay, 
I will shun it — 

And yet methinks that such debate's the 
fashion. 

You've heard ho-.v taunts, reproaches, and 
the lie, 

The' lie itself, have flown from mouth to 
mouth ; 

As if a band of peasants were disputing 

About a foot-ball match, rather than 
Chiefs 

Were ordering a battle. I am young, 

And lack experience ; tell me, brave De 
Vipont, 

Is such the fashion of your wars in Pales- 
tine ? 
Vip. Such it at times hath been ; and 
then the Cross 

Hath sunk before the Crescent. Heaven's 
cause 

Won us not victory where wisdom was 
not. — 

Behold yon English host come slowly 
on, 

With equal front, rank marshall'd upon 
rank, 

As if one spirit ruled one moving body ; 

The leaders, in their places, each prepared 

To charge, support, and rally, as the for- 
tune 

Of changeful battle needs : then look on 
ours, 

Broken, disjointed, as the tumbling surges 

Which the winds wake at random. Look 
on both, 



HALIDON HILL. 



465 



And dread the issue ; yet there might be 

succour. 
Gor. We're fearfully o'ermatch'd in 

discipline ; 
So even my inexperienced eye can judge. 
What succour save in Heaven? 
Vip. Heaven acts by human means. 

The artist's skill 
Supplies in war, as in mechanic crafts, 
Deficiency of tools. There's courage, 

wisdom, 
And skill enough, live in one leader here, 
As, flung into the balance, might avail 
To counterpoise the odds 'twixt that ruled 

host 
And our wild multitude. — I must not 

name him. 
Gor . I guess, but dare not ask. — What 

band is yonder, 
Arranged as closely as the English dis- 
cipline 
Hath marshall'd their best files ? 

Vip. Know'st thou not the pennon? 
One day, perhaps, thou'lt see it all too 

closely ; — 
It is Sir Alan Swinton's. 
Gor. These, then, are his, — the relics 

of his power ; 
Yet worth an host of ordinary men. — 
And I must slay my country's sagest 

leader, 
And crush by numbers that determined 

handful, 
When most my country needs their prac- 
tised aid, 
Or men will say, " There goes degenerate 

Gordon ; 
His [father's blood is on the Swinton's 

sword, 
And his is in his scabbard ! " [Muses. 

Vip. [apart). High blood and mettle, 

mix'd with early wisdom, 
Sparkle in this brave youth. If he survive 
This evil-omen'd day, I pawn my word, 
That, in the ruin which I now forebode, 
Scotland has treasure left. — How close he 

eyes 
Each look and step of Swinton! Is it 

hate, 
Or is it admiration, or are both 
Commingled strangely in that steady gaze? 
[Swinton a?id Maxwell return 
from the bottom of the stage. 
Max. The storm is laid at length 

amongst these counsellors ; 
See, they come forth. 



Swi. And it is more than time ; 
For I can mark the vanguard archery 
Handling their quivers— bending up their 
bows. 

Enter the Regent and Scottish Lords. 

Reg. Thus shall it be, then, since we 

may no better, 
And, since no Lord will yield one jot of 

way 
To this high urgency, or give the vanguard 
Up to another's guidance, we will abide 

them 
Even on this bent ; and as our troops are 

rank'd, 
So shall they meet the foe. Chief, nor 

Thane, 
Nor Noble, can complain of the preced- 
ence 
Which chance has thus assign'd him. 

Swi. {apart). O, sage discipline, 
That leaves to chance the marshalling of 

a battle ! 
Gor. Move him to speech, De Vipont. 
Vip. Move hitn /—Move whom ? 
Gor. Even him, whom, but brief space 

since, 
My hand did burn to put to utter silence. 
Vip. I'll move it to him. — Swinton, 

speak to them, 
They lack thy counsel sorely. 

Swi. Had I the thousand spears which 

once I led, 
I had not thus been silent. But men's 

wisdom 
Is rated by their means. From the poor 

leader 
Of sixty lances, who seeks words of 

weight? 
Gor. [steps forward). Swinton, there's 

that of wisdom on thy brow, 
And valour in thine eye, and that of peril 
In this most urgent hour, that bids me 

say, — 
Bids me, thy mortal foe, say, — Swinton, 

speak, 
For King and Country's sake 
Swi. Nay, if that voice commands me, 

speak I will ; 
It sounds as if the dead lays charge on me. 
Reg. [to Lennox, with whom he has 

been consulting). 'Tis better than you 

think. This broad hill-side 
Affords fair compass for our power's dis- 
play, 
Rank above rank rising in seemly tiers ; 

30 



466 



SCOTT'S POETICAL IVORICS. 



So that the rearward stands as fair and 

open 

Swi. As e'er stood mark before an 

English archer. 
Reg. Who dares to say so? — Who is't 

dare impeach 
Our rule of discipline ? 
Swi. A poor Knight of these Marches, 

good my Lord ; 
Alan, of Swinton, who hath kept a house 

here, 
He and his ancestry, since the old days 
Of Malcolm, called the Maiden. 

Reg. You have brought here, even to 

this pitched field, 
In which the Royal Banner is display'd, 
I think some sixty spears, Sir Knight of 

Swinton ; 
Our musters name no more. 
Swi. I brought each man I had; and 

Chief, or Earl, 
Thane, Duke, or dignitary, brings no 

more : 
And with them brought I what may here 

be useful — 
An aged eye ; which, what in. England, 

Scotland, 
Spain, France, and Flanders, hath seen 

fifty battles, 
And ta'en some judgment of them ; "a 

stark hand too, 
Which plays as with a straw with^ this 

same mace, — 
Which if a young arm here can wield 

more lightly, 
I never more will offer word of counsel. 
Len. Hear him, my Lord ; it is the 

noble Swinton — 
He hath had high experience. 

Max. He is noted 

The wisest warrior 'twixt the Tweed and 

Solway, — 
I do beseech you, hear him. 
John. Ay, hear the Swinton — hear 

stout old Sir Alan ; 
Maxwell and Johnstone both agree for 

once. 
Reg. Where's your impatience now. 
Late you wer« all for battle, would not 

hear 
Ourself pronounce a word — and now you 

gaze 
On yon old warrior, in his antique armour, 
As if he were arisen from the dead, 
To bring us Bruce's counsel for the 

battle. 



Swi. "lis a proud word to speak; but 

he who fought 
Long under Robert Bruce, may something 

guess, 
Without communication with the dead, 
At what he would have counsell'd. — Bruce 

had bidden ye 
Review your battle-order, marshall'd 

broadly 
Here on the bare hill-side, and bidden 

you mark 
Yon clouds of Southron archers, bearing 

down 
To the green meadow-lands which stretch 

beneath — 
The Bruce had warn'd you, not a shaft 

to-day 
But shall find mark within a Scottish 

bosom, 
If thus our field be order'd. The callow 

boys, 
Who draw but four-foot bows, shall gall 

our front, 
While on our mainward, and upon the 

rear, 
The cloth-yard shafts shall fall like 

death's own darts, 
And, though blind men discharge them, 

find a mark. 
Thus shall we die the death of slaughter'd 

deer, 
Which, driven into the toils, are shot at 

ease 
By boys and women, while they toss aloft 
All idly and in vain their branchy horns, 
As we shall shake our unavailing spears. 
Reg. Tush, tell not me ! if their shot 

fall like hail, 
Our men have Milan coats to bear it out. 
Swi. Never did armourer temper steel 

on stithy 
That made sure fence against an English 

arrow ; 
A cobweb gossamer were guard as good 
Against a wasp-sting. 

Reg. Who fears a wasp-sting ? 
Swi. I, my Lord, fear none ; 

Yet should a wise man brush the insect off, 
Or he may smart for it. 
Reg. We'll keep the hill; it is the 

vantage-ground 
When the main battle joins. 
Swi. It ne'er will join, while their light 

archery 
Can foil our spearmen and our barbed 

horse. 



BAL1D0N HILL. 



467 



To hope Plantagenet would seek close 

combat 
When he can conquer riskless, is to deem 
Sagacious Edward simpler than a babe 
In battle-knowledge. Keep the hill, my 

Lord, 
With the main body, if it is your pleasure ; 
But let a body of your chosen horse 
Make execution on yon waspish archers. 
I've done such work before, and love it 

well; 
If 'tis your pleasure to give me the leading, 
The dames of Sherwood, Inglewood, and 

Weardale, 
Shall sit in widowhood and long for 

venison, 
And long in vain. Whoe'er remembers 

Bannockburn, — 
And when shall Scotsman, till the last 

loud trumpet, 
Forget that stirring word ! — knows^ that 

great battle 
Even thus was fought and won. 

Len. This is the shortest road to bandy 

blows ; 
For when the bills step forth and bows go 

back, 
Then is the moment that our hardy spear- 
men, 
With their strong bodies, and their stub- 
born hearts, 
And limbs well knit by mountain exercise, 
At the close tug shallfoil the short-breath'd 

Southron. 
Swi. I do not say the field will thus be 

won; 
The English host is numerous, brave, and 

loyal ; 
Their Monarch most accomplish'd in war's 

art, 

Skill'd, resolute, and wary 

Reg. And if your scheme secure not 

victory, 
What does it promise us? 

Swr. This much at least,— 

Darkling we shall not die : the peasant's 

shaft, 
Loosen'd perchance without an aim or 

purpose, 
Shall not drink up the life-blood we derive 
From those famed ancestors, who made 

their breasts 
This frontier's barrier for a thousand 

years. 
We'll meet these Southron bravely hand to 

hand, 



And eye to eye, and weapon against 
weapon ; 

Each man who falls shall see the foe who 
strikes him. 

While our good blades are faithful to the 
hilts, 

And our good hands to these good blades 
are faithful, 

Blow shall meet blow, and none fall un- 
avenged — 

We shall not bleed alone. 

Reg. And this is all 

Your wisdom hath devised ? 

Swi. Not all ; for I would pray you, 
noble Lords, 

(If one, among the guilty guiltiest, might,) 

For this one day to charm to ten hours' rest 

The never-dying worm of deadly feud, 

That gnaws our vexed hearts — think no 
one foe 

Save Edward and his host : — days will 
remain, 

Ay, days by far too many will remain, 

To avenge old feuds or struggles for pre- 
cedence ; — 

Let this one day be Scotland's. — For my- 
self, 

If there is any here may claim from me 

(As well may chance) a debt of blood and 
hatred, 

My life is his to-morrow unresisting, 

So he to-day will let me do the best 

That my old arm may achieve for the dear 
country 

That's mother to us both. 

[Gordon shows much emotion 
during this and the preceding 
speech of Swinton. 
Reg. It is a dream— a vision ! — if one 
troop 

Rush down upon the archers, all will 
follow, 

And order is destroy'd — we'll keep the 
battle-rank 

Our fathers wont to do. No more on't. — 
Ho! 

Where be those youths seek knighthood 
from our sword ? 
Her. Here are the Gordon, Somerville, 
and Hay, 

And Hepburn, with a score of gallants 
more. 
Reg. Gordon, stand forth. 
Gor. . I pray your Grace forgive me. 
Reg. How! seek you not for knight- 
hood? 



468 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Gor. I do thirst for't. 

But, pardon me— 'tis from another sword. 

Reg. It is your Sovereign's — seek you 

for a worthier? 
Gor. Who would drink purely, seeks 

the secret fountain, 
How small soever — not the general stream, 
Though it be deep and wide. My Lord, 

I seek 
The boon of knighthood from the hon- 
our' d weapon 
Of the best knight, and of the sagest 

_.. leader, 
That ever graced a ring of chivalry. 
— Therefore, I beg the boon on bended 

knee, 
Even from Sir Alan Swinton. {Kneels. 
Reg. Degenerate boy ! Abject at once 

and insolent ! — 
See, Lords, he kneels to him that slew his 

/father ! 
Gor. {starting up). Shame be on him 

who speaks such shameful word ! 
Shame be on him, whose tongue would 

sow dissension, 
When most the time demands that native 

Scotsmen 
Forget each private wrong ! 
Swi. (interrupting him). Youth, since 

you crave me 
To be your sire in chivalry, I remind 

you 
War has its duties, Office has its rever- 
ence; 
Who governs in the Sovereign's name is 

Sovereign ; 
Crave the Lord Regent's pardon. 
Gor. You task me justly, and I crave 

his pardon, [Bows to the Regent. 

His and these noble Lords' ; and pray 

them all 
Bear witness to my words.' — Ye noble 

presence, 
Here I remit unto the Knight of Swinton 
All bitter memory of my father's slaughter, 
All thoughts of malice, hatred, and re- 
venge ; 
By no base fear or composition moved, 
But by the thought, that in our country's 

battle 
All hearts should be as one. I do forgive 

him 
As freely as I pray to be forgiven, 
And once more kneel to him to sue for 

knighthood. 
Swi. (affected, and drawing his sword). 



Alas! brave youth, 'tis I should kneel to 

v you, 
And, tendering thee the hilt of the fell 

sword 
That made thee fatherless, bid thee use 

the point 
After thine own discretion. For thy 

boon — 

Trumpets, be ready— In the Holiest name, 

And in Our Lady's and Saint Andrew's 

name, 

[Touching his shoulder with his sword. 

I dub thee Knight !— Arise, Sir Adam 

Gordon ! 
Be faithful, brave, and O, be fortunate, 
Should this ill hour permit ! 

[The trumpets sound; the Heralds 
cry " Largesse," and the Attend- 
ants shout "A Gordon! A Gor- 
don! " 
Reg. Beggars and flatterers! Peace, 
peace, I say ! 
We'll to the Standard ; knights shall there 

be made 
Who will with better reason crave your 
clamour. 
Len. What of Swinton's counsel ? 
Here's Maxwell and myself think it worth 
noting. 
Reg. (with concentrated indignation). 
Let the best knight, and let the sagest 

leader — 
So Gordon quotes the man who slew his 

father, — 
With his old pedigree and heavy mace, 
Essay the adventure if it pleases him, 
With his fair threescore horse. As for 

ourselves, 
We will not peril aught upon the measure. 
Gor. Lord Regent, you mistake ; for if 
Sir Alan 
Shall venture such attack, each man who 

calls 
The Gordon Chief, and hopes or fears 

from him 
Or good or evil, follows Swinton's banner 
In this achievement. 
Reg. Why, God ha' mercy ! This is of 
a piece. 
Let young and old e'en follow their own 

counsel, 
Since none will list to mine. 

Ross. The Border cockerel fain would 
be on horseback ; 
'Tis safe to be prepared for fight or flight : 
And this comes of it to give Northern lands 



HALIDON HILL. 



469 



To the false Norman blood. 
•Gor. Hearken, proud Chief of Isles! 
Within my stalls 
I have two hundred horse ; two hundred 

riders 
Mount guard upon my castle, who would 

tread 
Into the dust a thousand of your Red- 
shanks, 
Nor count it a day's service. 

Svvi. Hear I this 

From thee, young man, and on the day of 

battle ? 
And to the brave MacDonnell ? 

GOR. 'Twas he that urged me; but I 

am rebuked. 
Reg. He crouches like a leash-hound 

to his master!* 
Swi. Each hound must do so that 
would head the deer — 
Tis mongrel curs that snatch at mate or 
master. 
Reg. Too much of this. Sirs, to the 
Royal Standard ! 
I bid you, in the name of good King 

David. 
Sound trumpets- -sound for Scotland and 
King David ! 
[ The Regent and the rest go off, 
and the Scene closes. Manent 
Gordon, Svvinton, and Vi- 
PONT, with Reynald and fol- 
lowers. Lennox follcnos the 
Regent ; but returns, and ad- 
dresses Swinton. 
Len. O, were my western horsemen 
but come up, 
I would take part with you ! 

Swi. Better that you remain ; 

They lack discretion ; such gray head as 

yours 
May best supply that want. 
Lennox, mine ancient friend, and honour'd 

lord, 
Farewell, I think, for ever ! 

Len. Farewell, brave friend ! — and fare- 
well, noble Gordon, 
Whose sun willbe eclipsed even as it rises ! — 
The Regent will not aid you. 
Swi. We will so bear us, that as soon 
the bloodhound 
Shall halt, and take no part, what time 
his comrade 



* The laws of chivalry demanded this sub- 
mission to a father in chivalry. 



Is grappling with the deer, as he stand still, 
And see us overmatch'd. 

Len. Alas ! thou dost not know how 

mean his pride is, 
How strong his envy. 
Swi. Then we will die, and leave the 

shame with him. [Exit Lennox. 
Vip. {to Gordon). What ails thee, 

noble youth? What means this 

pause? 
Thou dost not rue thy generosity ? 

Gor. I have been hurried on by strong 

impulse, 
Like to a bark that scuds before the storm, 
Till driven upon some strange and distant 

coast, 
Which never pilot dream'd of. — Have I 

not forgiven ? 
And am I not still fatherless ? 

Swi. Gordon, no ; 

For while we live I am a father to thee. 
Gor. Thou, Swinton?— no !— that can- 
not, cannot be. 
Swi. Then change the phrase, and say, 

that while we live, 
Gordon shall be my son. If thou art 

fatherless, 
Am I not childless too? Bethink thee, 

Gordon, 
Our death-feud was not like the house- 
hold fire, 
Which the poor peasant hides among its 

embers, 
To smoulder on, and wait a time for wak- 

• ing. 
Ours was the conflagration of the forest, 
Which, in its fury, spares nor sprout nor 

stem, 
Hoar oak, nor sapling — not to be extin- 

guish'd, 
Till Heaven, in mercy, sends down all her 

waters ; 
But, once subdued, its flame is quench'd 

for ever ; 
And spring shall hide the tract of devasta- 
tion, 
With foliage and with flowers. — Give me 

thy hand. 
Gor. My hand and heart! — And freely 

now ! — to fight ! 
Vip. How will you act? [To Swinton.] 

The Gordon's band and thine 
Are in the rearward left, 1 think, in 

scorn — 
111 post for them who wish to charge the 

foremost J 



47o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Swi. We'll turn that scorn to vantage, 

and descend 
Sidelong the hill — some winding path 

there must be — 
O, for a well-sklll'd guide ! 

[Hob HattelY starts upfront a 
thicket. 
Hob. So here he stands. — An ancient 

friend, Sir Alan. 
Hob Hattely, or, if you like it better, 
Hob of the Heron Plume, here stands 

your guide. 
Swi. An ancient friend? — a most noto- 
rious knave, 
Whose throat I've destin'd to the dodder'd 

oak 
Before my castle, these ten months and 

more. 
Was it not you who drove from Simprim- 

mains, 
And Swinton-quarter, sixty head of cattle? 
Hob. What then, if now 1 lead your 

sixty lances 
Upon the English flank, where they'll find 

spoil 
Is worth six hundred beeves? 
Swi. Why, thou canst do it, knave. I 

would not trust thee 
With one poor bullock ; yet would risk my 

life, 
And all my followers, on thine honest 

guidance. 
Hob. There is a dingle, and a most dis- 
creet one, 
(I've trod each step by star-light,) that 

sweeps round 
The rearward of this hill, and opens 

secretly 
Upon the archers' flank. — Will not that 

serve 
Your present turn, Sir Alan ? 

Swi. Bravely, bravely ! 

Gor. Mount, sirs, and cry my slogan. 
Let all who love the Gordon follow me ! 
Swi. Ay, let all follow — but in silence 

follow ; 
Scare not the hare that's couchant on her 

form — 
The cushat from her nest — brush not, if 

possible, 
The dew-drop from the spray — - 
Let no one whisper, until I cry, " Havoc ! " 
Then shout as loud's ye. will. — On, on, 

brave Hob ; 
On, thou false thief, but yet most faithful 

Scotsman ! [Exeunt. 



ACT II.— Scene I. 

A rising Ground immediately in front of 
the Position of the English Main Body. 
Percy, Chandos, Ribaumoxt, and 
other English and Norman Nobles, are 
grouped on the Stage. 

Per. The Scots still keep the hill— the 
sun grows high ; 
Would that the charge would sound. 
Cha. Thou scent'st the slaughter, 
Percy. — Who comes here? 

Enter the Abbot of Walthamstow. 

Now, by my life, the holy priest of Wal- 

tham-stow, 
Like to a lamb among a herd of wolves ! 
See, he's about to bleat. 
Ab. The King, methinks, delays the 

onset long. 
Cha. Your general, Father, like your 
rat-catcher, 
Pauses to bait his traps, and set his snares. 
Ab. The metaphor is decent. 
Cha. Reverend sir, 

I will uphold it just. Our good King 

Edward 
Will presently come to this battle-field, 
And speak to you of the last tilting match, 
Or of some feat he did a twenty years since ; 
j But not a word of the day's work before 
him. 
Even as the artist, sir, whose name offends 

you, 
Sits prosing o'er his can, until the trap fall, 
i Announcing that the vermin are secured, 
And then 'tis up, and on them. 

Per. Chandos, you give your tongue 

too bold a licence. 
Cha. Percy, I am a necessary evil. 
King Edward would not want me, if he 

could, 
And could not, if he would. I know my 

value. 
My heavy hand excuses my light tongue. 
So men wear weighty swords in their de- 
fence, 
Although they may offend the tender shin, 
When the steel-boot is doff d. 

Ab. My Lord of Chandos, 

This is but idle speech on brink of battle, 
When Christian men should think upon 

their sins ; 
For as the tree falls, so the trunk must lie, 
Be it for good or evil. Lord, bethink thee, 



HALIDON HILL. 



471 



Thou hast withheld from our most reverend 

house 
The tithes of Everingham and Settleton ; 
Wilt thou make satisfaction to the Church, j 
Before her thunders strike thse? I do 

warn thee 
In most paternal sort. 

Cha. I thank you, Father, filially. 
Though but a truant son of Holy Church, 
I would not choose to undergo her censures, 
When Scottish blades are waving at my 

throat. 
I'll make fair composition. 
Ab. No composition ; I'll have all, or 

none. 
Cha. None, then — 'tis soonest spoke. 
I'll take my chance, 
And trust my sinful soul to Heaven's 

mercy, 
Rather than risk my worldly goods with 

thee— 
My hour may not be come. 
Ab. Impious — impenitent — 
Per. Hush !— the King— the King ! 

Enter King Edward, attended by 
BALIOL and others. 

KING {apart to Cha.). Hark hither, 
Chandos ! — Have the Yorkshire 
archers 
Yet join'd the vanguard? 
Cha. They are marching thither. 

K. Ed. Bid them make haste, for 
shame — send a quick rider. 
The loitering knaves ! were it to steal my 

venison, 
Their steps were light enough. — How 

now, Sir Abbot ? 
Say, is your Reverence come to study 

with us 
The princely art of war ? 

Ab. I've had a lecture from my Lord 
of Chandos, 
In which he term'd your Grace a rat- 
catcher. 
K. Ed. Chandos, how's this? 
Cha. O, I will prove it, sir ! — These 
skipping Scots 
Have changed a dozen times 'twixt Bruce 

and Baliol, 
Quitting each House when it began to 

totter ; 
They're fierce and cunning, treacherous, 

too, as rats, 
And we, as such, will smoke them in their 
fastnesses. 



K. Ed. These rats have seen your back, 

my Lord of Chandos, 
And noble Percy's too. 

Per. Ay ; but the mass which now lies 

weltering 
On yon hill-side, like a Leviathan 
That's stranded on the shallows, then had 

soul in't, 
Order and discipline, and power of action. 
Now 'tis a headless corpse, which only 

shows, 
By wild convulsions, that some life re- 
mains in't. 
K. Ed. True, they had once a head; 

and 'twas a wise, 
Although a rebel head. 
Ab. (bow big to the King). Would he 

were here ! we should find one to 

match him. 
K. Ed. There's something in that 

wish which wakes an echo 
Within my bosom. Yet it is as well, 
Or better, that The Bruce is in his grave. 
We have enough of powerful foes on 

earth, — 
No need to summon them from other 

worlds. 
Per. Your Grace ne'er met The Bruce? 
K. Ed. Never himself ; but in my 

earliest field 
I did encounter with his famous captains, 
Douglas and Randolph. Faith ! they 

press'd me hard. 
Ab. My Liege, if I might urge you 

with a question, 
Will the Scots fight to-day ? 

K. Ed. (sharply). Go look your bre- 
• viary. 
Cha. (apart). The Abbot has it- 
Edward will not answer 
On that nice point. We must observe his 

humour. — [Addresses the King.] 
Your first campaign, my Liege? — That 

was in Weardale, 
When Douglas gave our camp yon mid- 
night ruffle, 
And turn'd men's beds to biers. 

K. Ed. Ay, by Saint Edward !— I 

escaped right nearly. 
I was a soldier then for holidays, 
And slept not in mine armour : my safe rest 
Was startled by the cry of "Douglas! 

Douglas ! " 
And by my couch, a grisly chamberlain, 
Stood Alan Swinton, with his bloody 

mace. 



472 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



It was a churchman saved me — my stout 

chaplain, 
Heaven quithis spirit ! caught a weapon up, 
And grappled with the giant. — How now, 

Louis ! 

Enter an Officer, who whispers the King. 

K. Ed. Say to him,— thus — and thus — 
[ Whispers. 
Ab. That Swinton's dead. A monk of 
ours reported, 
Bound homeward from St. Ninian's pil- 
grimage, ' 
The Lord of Gordon slew him. 

Per. Father, and if your house stood 
on our borders, 
You might have cause to know that Swin- 

ton lives, 
And is on horseback yet. 

Cha.- He slew the Gordon, 

That's all the difference— a very trifle. 
Ab. Trifling to those who wage a war 
more noble 
Than with the arm of flesh. 

Cha. {apart). The Abbot's vex'd, I'll 
rub the sore for him. — 
{Aloud.) I have seen priests that used 

that arm of flesh, 
And used it sturdily. —Most reverend 

Father, 
Whatsayyou to the chaplain's deed of arms 
In the King's tent at Weardale? 
Ab. It was most sinful, being against 
the canon 
Prohibiting all churchmen to bear wea- 
pons; 
And as he fell in that unseemly guise, 
Perchance his soul may rue it. 

K. Ed. (overhearing the last words). 
Who may rue? 
And what is to be rued? 

Cha. {apart). I'll match his Reverence 
for the tithes of Everingham. 
— The Abbot says, my Liege, the deed 

was sinful, 
By which your chaplain, wielding secular 

weapons, 
Secured your Grace's life and liberty, 
And that he suffers for 't in purgatory. 
K. Ed. (to the Abbot). Say'st thou my 

chaplain is in purgatory? 
Ab. It is the canon speaks it, good my 

Liege. 
K. Ed. In purgatory! thou shalt pray 
him out on't, 
Or I will make thee wish thyself beside him. 



Ab. My Lord, perchance his soul is 
past the aid 
Of all the Church may do— there is a 

place 
From which there's no redemption. 

K. Ed. And if I thought my faithful 
chaplain there, 
Thou shouldst there join him, priest ! — 

Go, watch, fast, pray, 
And let me have such prayers as will 

storm Heaven — 
None of your maim'd and mutter'd hunt- 
ing masses. 
Ab. (apart to Ci-IA.). For God's sake 

take him off. 
Cha. Wilt thou compound, then, 
The tithes of Everingham? 

K. Ed. I tell thee, if thou bear'st the 
keys of Heaven, 
Abbot, thou shalt not turn a bolt with 

them 
'Gainst any well-deserving English subject. 
Ab. (to Cha.) We will compound, and 
grant thee, too, a share 
I' the next indulgence. Thou dost need 

it much, 
And greatly 'twill avail thee. 

Cha. Enough— we're friends, and when 
occasion serves, 

I will strike in.: 

[Looks as if towards the Scottish Army. 
K. Ed. Answer, proud Abbot ; is my 
chaplain's soul, 
If thou knowest aught on't, in the evil 
place? 
Cha. My Liege, the Yorkshire men 
have gain'd the meadow. 
I see the pennon green of merry Sherwood. 
K. Ed. Then give the signal instant ! 
We have lost 
But too much time already. 
Ab. My Liege, your holy chaplain's 

blessed soul — 
K. Ed. To hell with it and thee ! Is 
this a time 
To speak of monks and chaplains? 

[Flourish of Trumpets, answered by 
a distant sound of Bugles. 
See, Chandos, Percy— Ha, Saint George ! 

Saint Edward ! 
See it descending now, the fatal hail- 
shower, 
The storm of England's wrath — sure, 

swift, resistless, 
Which no mail-coat can brook. — Brave 
English hearts ! 



HA LID ON HILL. 



473 



How close they shoot together !— as one 

eye 
Had aim'd five thousand shafts— as if one 

hand 
Had loosed five thousand bow-strings ! 

Per. The thick volley 

Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us. 

K. Ed. It falls on those shall see the 

sun no more. 

The winged, the resistless plague is with 

them. 
How their vex'd host is reeling to and 

fro, 
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances 

in him, 
They do not see, and cannot shun the 

wound. 
The storm is viewless as death's sable 

wing, 
Unerring as his scythe. 
Per. Horses and riders are going clown 
together. 
'Tis almost pity to see nobles fall, 
And by a peasant's arrow. 

Bal. I could weep them, 

Although they are my rebels. 

Cha. (aside to Per.) His conquerors, 
he means, who cast him out 
From his usurped kingdom. — (Aloud.) 

'Tis the worst of it, 
That knights can claim small honour in 

the field 
Which archers win, unaided by our lances. 
K. Ed. The battle is not ended. 

[Looks towards the field. 
Not ended ? — scarce begun ! What horse 

are these, 
Rush from the thicket underneath the hill? 
Per. They're Hainaulters, the followers 

of Queen Isabel. 
K. Ed. (hastily). Hainaulters ! — thou 
art blind — wear Hainaulters 
Saint Andrew's silver cross? — or would 

they charge 
Full on our archers, and make havoc of 

them ? — 
Bruce is alive again — ho, rescue ! rescue ! — 
Who was't survey'd the ground ? 
Riba. Moat royal Liege — 
K. Ed. A rose hath fallen from thy 
chaplet,* Ribaumont. 

* The well-known expression by which Robert 
Bruce censured the negligence of Randolph, 
for permitting an English body of cavalry to 
pass his flank on the day preceding the battle 
of Bannockburn. 



Riba. I'll win it back, or lay my head 
beside it. [Exit. 

K. Ed. Saint George ! Saint Edward I 
Gentlemen, to horse, 

And to the rescue ! — Percy, lead the bil.- 
men; 

Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at- 
arms. — 

If yonder numerous host should now bear 
down 

Bold as their vanguard, (to the Abbot,) 
thou mayst pray for us, 

We may need good men's prayers. — To 
the rescue, 

Lords, to the rescue ! ha, Saint George ! 
Saint Edward ! [Exeunt. 

Scene II. 

A fart of the Field of Battle betwixt the 
two Main Armies. Tumults behind the 
sce?ies; alarums, and cries of ' ' Gordon ! 
a Gordon ! " " S win ton ! " &c. 

Enter, as victorious over the English van- 
guard, VlPONT, REYNALD, and others. 

Vip. 'Tis sweet to hear these war-cries 

sound together, — 
Gordon and Svvinton. 

Rey. 'Tis passing pleasant, yet 'tis 

strange withal. 
Faith, when at first I heard the Gordon's 

slogan 
Sounded so near me, I had nigh struck 

down 
The knave who cried it. 

Enter SWINTON and GORDON. 
Swi. Pitch down my pennon in yon 

holly bush. 
Gor. Mine in the thorn beside it ; let 

them wave, 
As fought this morn their masters, side by 

side. 
Swi. Let the men rally, and restore 

their ranks 
Here in this vantage-ground — disorder'd 

chase 
Leads to disorder'd flight ; we have done 

our part, 
And if we're succour'd now, Plantagenet 
Must turn his bridle southward. — 
Reynald, spur to the Regent with the 

basnet 
Of stout De Grey, the leader of their van- 
guard ; 
Say, that in battle-front the Gordon slew 

him, 



474 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



And by that token bid him send us suc- 
cour. 
GOR. And tell him that when Selby's 

headlong charge 
Had well-nigh borne me down, Sir Alan 

smote him. 
I cannot send his helmet, never nutshell 
Went to so many shivers. — Harkye, 

grooms ! [ To those behind the scenes. 
Why do you let my noble steed stand 

stiffening 
After so hot a course ? 

Swi. Ay, breathe your horses, they'll 

have work anon, 
For Edward's men-at-arms will soon be 

on us, 
The flower of England, Gascony, and 

Flanders ; 
But with swift succour we will bide them 

bravely. — 
De Vipont, thou look'st sad. 
Vip. It is because I hold a Templar's 

sword 
Wet to the crossed hilt with Christian 

blood. 
Swi. The blood of English archers — 

what can gild 
A Scottish blade more bravely ? 
Vip. Even therefore grieve I for those 

gallant yeomen, 
England's peculiar and appropriate sons, 
Known in no other land. Each boasts his 

hearth 
.And field as free as the best lord his 

barony, 
Owing subjection to no human vassalage, 
Save to their King and law. Hence are 

they resolute, 
Leading the van on every day of battle, 
As men who know the blessings they 

defend. 
Hence are they frank and generous in 

peace, 
As men who have their portion in its 

plenty. 
No other kingdom shows such worth and 

happiness 
Veil'd in such low estate — therefore I 

mourn them. 
Swi. I'll keep my sorrow for our native 

Scots, 
Who, spite of hardship, poverty, oppres- 
sion, 
Still follow to the field their Chieftain's 

banner, 
And die in the defence on't. 



Gor. And if I live and see my halls 

again, 
They shall have portion in the good they 

fight for. 
Each hardy follower shall have his field, 
His household hearth and sod-built home, 

as free 
As ever Southron had. They shall be 

happy ! — 
And my Elizabeth shall smile to see it ! — 
I have betray'd myself. 

Swi. Do not believe it. — 

Vipont, do thou look out from yonder 

height, 
And see what motion in the Scottish host, 
And in King Edward's.— [Exit VlPONT. 

Now will I counsel thee ; 
The Templar's ear is for no tale of love, 
Being wedded to his Order. But I tell 

thee, 
The brave young knight that hath no 

lady-love 
Is like a lamp unlighted ; his brave deeds, 
And its rich painting, do seem then most 

glorious, 
When the pure ray gleams through them. — 
Hath thy Elizabeth no other name? 
Gor. Must I then speak of her to you, 

Sir Alan? 
The thought of thee, and of thy matchless 

strength, 
Hath conjured phantoms up amongst her 

dreams. 
The name of Swinton hath been spell suf- 
ficient 
To chase the rich blood from her lovely 

cheek, 
And wouldst thou now know hers? 

Swi. I would, nay must. 

Thy father in the paths of chivalry, 
Should know the load-star thou dost rule 

thy course by. 
Gor. Nay, then, her name is — hark — 
[ Whispers. 
Swi. I know it well, that ancient 

northern house. 
Gor. O, thou shalt see its fairest grace 

and honour 
In my Elizabeth. And if music touch 

thee 

Swi. It did, before disasters had un- 
tuned me. 
Gor. O, her notes 
Shall hush each sad remembrance to ob- 
livion, 
Or melt them to such gentleness of feeling, 



HALIDON HILL. 



475 



That grief shall have its sweetness. Who, 

but she, 
Knows the wild harpingsof ournative land? 
Whether they lull the shepherd on his hill, 
Or wake the knight to battle ; rouse to 

merriment, 
Or soothe to sadness ; she can touch each 

mood. 
Princes and statesmen, chiefs renown" d in 

arms, 
And gray-hair'd bards, contend which 

shall the first 
And choicest homage render to the en- 
chantress. 
Swi. You speak her talent bravely. 
GOR. Though you smile, 

I do not speak it half. Her gift creative, 
New measures adds to every air she wakes ; 
Varying and gracing it with liquid sweet- 
ness, 
Like the wild modulation of the lark ; 
Now leaving, now returning to the strain! 
To listen to her, is to seem to wander 
In some enchanted labyrinth of romance, 
Whence nothing but the lovely fairy's will, 
Who wove the spell, can extricate the 

wanderer. 
Methinks I hear her now ! — 

Swi. Bless'd privilege 

Of youth ! There's scarce three minutes 

to decide 
'Twixt death and life, 'twixt triumph and 

defeat, 
Yet all his thoughts are in his lady's bower, 
List'ning her harping ! [Enter Vipont. 

Where are thine, De Vipont ? 
Vip. On death — on judgment — on 

eternity! 
For time is over with us. 
Swi. There moves not, then, one pennon 

to our aid, 
Of all that flutter yonder ! 
Vip. From the main English host come 

rushing forward 
Pennons enow — ay, and their Royal" 

Standard. 
But ours stand rooted, as for crows to 

roost on. 
Swi. {to himself). I'll rescue him at 

least. — Young Lord of Gordon, 
Spur to the Regent— show the instant 

need 

Gor. I penetrate thy purpose ; but I go 

not. 
Swi. Not at my bidding? I, thy sire 

in chivalry— t 



Thy leader in the battle? — I command 

thee ! 
Gor. No, thou wilt not command me 

seek my safety — 
For such is thy kind meaning — at the ex- 
pense 
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves for 

Scotland. 
While I abide, no follower of mine 
Will turn his rein for life ; but were I gone, 
What power can stay them? and, our band 

dispersed, 
What sword shall for an instant stem yon 

host, 
And save the latest chance for victory ? 
Vip. The noble youth speaks truth ; and 

were he gone, 
There will not twenty spears be left with us. 
Gor. No, bravely as we have begun the 

field, 
So let us fight it out. The Regent's eyes, 
More certain than a thousand messages, 
Shall see us stand, the barrier of his host 
Against yon bursting storm. If not for 

honour, 
If not for warlike rule, for shame at least 
He must bear down to aid us. 

Swi. Must it be so? 

And am I forced to yield the sad consent, 
Devoting thy young life? O, Gordon, 

Gordon ! 
I do it as the patriarch doom'd his issue ; 
I at my country's, he at Heaven's com- 
mand ; 
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice, 
Rather than such a victim ! — [Trumpets.) 

Hark, they come ! 
That music sounds not like thy lady's lute. 
Gor. Yet shall my lady's name mix with 

it gaily. — 
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and 

cry, ' ' Gordon ! 
Gordon for Scotland and Elizabeth I " 

[Exeunt. Loud Alarums. 

SCENE III. 

Another part of the Field of Battle, adja- 
cent to the former Scene. 

Alarums. Enter SwmTON, followed 
by Hob Hattely. 

Swi. Stand to it yet ! The man who 
flies to-day, 
May bastards warm them at his household 
hearth ! 



476 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Hob. That ne'er shall be my curse. 
My Magdalen 
Is trusty as my broadsword. 

Swi. Ha, thou knave, 

Art thou dismounted too ? 

Hob. I know, Sir Alan, 

You want no homeward guide ; so threw 

my reins 
Upon my palfrey's neck, and let him loose. 
Within an hour he stands before my gate ; 
And Magdalen will need no other token 
To bid the Melrose Monks say masses for 
me. 
Swi. Thou art resolved to cheat the 

halter, then? 
Hob. It is my purpose, 

Having lived a thief, to die a brave man's 

death ; 
And never had I a more glorious chance 
for't. 
Swi. Here lies the way to it, knave. — 
Make in, make in, 
And aid young Gordon ! 

[Exeunt. Loud and long Alarums. 

After which the back Scene rises, 

and discovers SwiNTON on the 

ground, Gordon supporting 

him; both much wounded. 

Swi. All are cut down — the reapers 

have pass'd o'er us, 

And hie to distant harvest. — My toil's over ; 

There lies my sickle. {Dropping his 

sword.) Hand of mine again 
Shall never, never wield it ! 

Gor. O valiant leader, is thy light ex- 
tinguish'd ! 
That only beacon-flame which promised 

safety 
In this day's deadly wrack ! 

Swi. My lamp hath long been dim! 
But thine, young Gordon, 
Just kindled, to be quench'd so suddenly, 
Ere Scotland saw its splendour ! — 
Gor. Five thousand horse hung idly on 
yon hill, 
Saw us o'erpower'd, and no one stirr'd to 
aid us ! 
Swi. It was the Regent's envy. — Out! 
— alas ! 
Why blame I him ! — It was our civil dis- 
cord, 
Our selfish vanity, our jealous hatred, 
Which framed this day of dole for our 

poor country. — 
Had thy brave father held yon leading 
staff, 



As well his rank and valour might have 

claim'd it, 
We had not fall'n unaided. — How, O how 
Is he to answer it, whose deed pre- 
vented 

Gor. Alas! alas! the author of the 

death-feud, 
He has his reckoning too ! for had your sons 
And num'rous vassals lived, we had lack'd 

no aid. 
Swi. May God assoil the dead, and 

him who follows ! 
We've drank the poison'd beverage which 

we brew'd : 
Have sown the wind, and reap'd the ten- 
fold whirlwind ! — 
But thou, brave youth, whose nobleness of 

heart 
Pour'd oil upon the wounds our hate in- 
flicted-; 
Thou, who hast done no wrong, need'st 

no forgiveness, — 
Why should'st thou share our punishment ! 
GOR. All need forgiveness — {distant 

alarums.) Hark, in yonder shout, 

Did the main battles counter ! 
Swi. Look on the field, brave Gordon, 

if thou canst, 
And tell me how the day goes.— But I 

guess, 

Too surely do I guess 

Gor. All's lost! all's lost!— Of the 

main Scottish host, 
Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly 

forward ; 
And some there are who seem to turn 

their spears 
Against their countrymen. 
Swi. Rashness, and cowardice, and 

secret treason, 
Combine to ruin us ; and our hot valour, 
Devoid of discipline, is madmen's strength, 
More fatal unto friends than enemies! 
I'm glad that these dim eyes shall see no 

more on't. — 
Let thy hands close them, Gordon — I will 

dream 
My fair-hair' d William Tenders me that 

office ! [Dies. 

Gor. And, Swinton, I will think I do 

that duty 
To my dead father. 

Enter De VlPONT. 

Vip. Fly, fly, brave youth!— A hand- 
ful of thy followers, 



HAL1D0N HILL. 



477 



The scatter d gleaning of this desperate 

day, 
Still hover yonder to essay thy rescue — 
O linger not ! — I'll be your guide to them. 
Gor. Look there, and bid me fly ! — 

The oak has fall'n ; 
And the young ivy bush, which learn'd to 

climb 
By its support, must needs partake its fall. 
Vip. Swinton? Alas! the best, the 

bravest, strongest, 
And sagest of our Scottish chivalry ! 
Forgive one moment, if to save the living, 
My tongue should wrong the dead. — 

Gordon, bethink thee, 
Thou dost but stay to perish with the 

corpse 
Of him who slew thy father. 

Gor. Ay, but he was my sire in chivalry ! 
He taught my youth to soar above the 

promptings 
Of mean and selfish vengeance ; gave my 

youth 
A name that shall not die even on this 

death-spot, 
Records shall tell this field had not been 

lost, 
Had all men fought like Swinton and like 

Gordon . [ Trumpets. 

Save thee, De Vipont. — Hark I the South- 
ron trumpets. 
Vip. Nay, without thee I stir not. 

Enter Edward, Chandos, Percy, 
Baliol, &>c. 

GOR. Ay, they come on — the Tyrant 
and the Traitor, 
Workman and tool, Plantagenet and 

Baliol.— 
O for a moment's strength in this poor arm, 
To do one glorious deed ! 

[He rzishes on the English, but is 
made prisoner with ViPONT. 
K. Ed. Disarm them — harm them not ; 
though it was they 
Made havoc on the archers of our van- 
guard, 
They and that bulky champion. Where 
is he? 
Cha. Here lies the giant ! Say his 

name, young Knight? 
Gor. Let it suffice, he was a man this 

morning. 
Cha. I question'd thee in sport. I do 
not need 
Thy information, youth. Who that has 
fought 



Through all these Scottish wars, but 

knows his crest? 
The sable boar chain'd to the leafy oak, 
And that huge mace still seen where war 
was wildest ! 
K. Ed. Tis Alan Swinton! 
Grim Chamberlain, who in my tent at 

Weardale, 
Stood by my startled couch with torch 

and mace, 
When the Black Douglas' war-cry waked 
my camp. 
GOR. {sinking down). If thus thou 
know'st him, 
Thou wilt respect his corpse. 

K. Ed. As belted Knight and crowned 

King, I will. 
Gor. And let mine 
Sleep at his side, in token that our death 
Ended the feud of Swinton and of Gordon. 
K. Ed. It is the Gordon!— Is there 
aught beside 
Edward can do to honour bravery, 
Even in an enemy? 

Gor. Nothing but this ; 
Let not base Baliol, with his touch or look, 
Profane my corpse or Swinton's. I've 

some breath still, 
Enough to say — Scotland — Elizabeth ! 

{Dies. 
Cha. Baliol, I would not brook such 
dying looks, 
To buy the crown you aim at. 

K. Ed. (to Vip.) Vipont, thy crossed 
shield shows ill in warfare 
Against a Christian king. 
Vip. That Christian king is warring 
upon Scotland. 
I was a Scotsman ere I was a Templar, 
Sworn to my country ere I knew my Order. 
K. Ed. I will but know thee as a Chris- 
tian champion, 
And set thee free unransom'd. 

Enter Abbot of Walthamstow. 

Ab. Heaven grant your Majesty 
Many such glorious days as this has been ! 
K. Ed. It is a day of much and high 

advantage ; 
Gloriousitmighthave been, had all our foes 
Fought like these two brave champions. 

— Strike the drams, 
Sound trumpets, and pursue the fugitives, 
Till the Tweed's eddies whelm them. 

Berwick's render' d — 
These wars, I trust, will soon find lasting 

close. 



MACDUFF'S CROSS 



INTRODUCTION. 



These few scenes had the honour to be included in a Miscellany, published in the year 1823, 
by Mrs. Joanna Baillie, and are here reprinted, to unite them with the trifles of the same kind 
which owe their birth to the author. The singular history of the Cross and Law of Clan Mac- 
Duff is given, at length enough to satisfy the keenest antiquary, in Tlie Minstrelsy of the Scot' 
tisk Border. It is here only necessary to state, that the Cross was a place of refuge to any person 
related to MacDuff, within the ninth degree, who, having committed homicide in sudden quarrel, 
should reach this place, prove his descent from the Thane of Fife, and pay a certain penalty. 

The shaft of the Cross was destroyed at the Reformation. The huge block of stone which 
served for its pedestal is still in existence near the town of Newburgh, on a kind of pass which 
commands the county of Fife to the southward, and to the north the windings of the magnificent 
Tay and fertile country of Angusshire. The Cross bore an inscription, which is transmitted to 
us in an unintelligible form by Sir Robert Sibbald. 
Abbotsford, January 1830. 



TO 
MRS. JOANNA BAILLIE, 

* AUTHORESS OF 

"THE PLAYS ON THE PASSIONS. 



PRELUDE. 



Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of 
witchcraft, 

And say that still there lurks amongst our 
glens 

Some touch of strange enchantment. — 
Mark that fragment, 

I mean that rough-hewn block of massive 
stone, 

Placed on the summit of this mountain 
pass, 

Commanding prospect wide o'er field and 
fell, 

And peopled village and extended moor- 
land, 

And the wide ocean and majestic Tay, 

To the far distant Grampians.— Do not 
deem it 

A loosen' d portion of the neighbouring 
rock, 

Detach' d by storm and thunder,— 'twas 
the pedestal 

On which, in ancient times, a Cross was 
rear'd, 

Carved o'er with words which foil'd philo- 
logists ; 

And the events it did commemorate 



Were dark, remote, and undistinguishable, 
As were the mystic characters it bore. 
But, mark,— a wizard, born on Avon's 

bank, 
Tuned but his harp to this wild northern 

theme, 
And, lo ! the scene is hallow'd. None 

shall pass, 
Now, or in after days, beside that stone, 
But he shall have strange visions ; thoughts 

and words, 
That shake, or rouse, or thrill the human 

heart, 
Shall rush upon his memory when he hears 
The spirit-stirring name of this rude 

symbol ; — 
Oblivious ages, at that simple spell, 
Shall render back their terrors with their 

woes, 
Alas ! and with their crimes — and the 

proud phantoms 
Shall move with step familiar to his eye, 
And accents which, once heard, the ear 

forgets not, 
Though ne'er again to list them. Siddons, 

thine, 



MACDUFF S CROSS. 



479 



Thou matchless Siddons ! thrill upon our 

ear; 
And on our eye thy lofty Brother's form 
Rises as Scotland's monarch. — But, to 

thee, 
Joanna, why to thee speak of such visions? 
Thine own wild wand can raise them. 

Yet since thou wilt an idle tale of mine, 



Take one which scarcely is of worth 

enough 
To give or to withhold.— Our time creeps 

on, 
Fancy grows colder as the silvery hair 
Tells the advancing winter of our life. 
But if it be of worth enough to please, 
That worth it owes to her who set the task ; 
If otherwise, the fault rests with the author. 



DRAMA TIS PERSON JE. 



i Monks of Lindores. 



NlNIAN, 

Waldhave, 

Lindesay, \ Scottish Barons. 



Maurice Berkeley, 



Scene. 
The summit of a Rocky Pass near to New- 
burgh, about two miles from the ancient 
Abbey of Lindores, in Fife. In the 
centre is MacDuff's Cross, an antique 
Monument ; and, at a small distance, 
on one side, a Chapel with a lamp 
burning. 

Enter, as having ascended the Pass, 
Ninian and Waldhave, Monks of 
Lindores. Ninian crosses himself, and 
seems to recite his devotions. Wald- 
have stands gazing on the prospect, as 
if in deep contemplation. 

Nin. Here stands the Cross, good 
. brother, consecrated 
By the bold Thane unto his patron saint 
Magridius, once a brother of our house. 
Canst thou not spare an ave or a creed ? 
Or hath the steep ascent exhausted you ? 
You trode it stoutly, though 'twas rough 
and toilsome. 
Wal. I have trode a rougher. 
Nin. On the Highland hills— 

Scarcely within our sea-girt province here, 
Unless upon the Lomonds or Bennarty. 
Wal. I spoke not of the literal path, 
good father, 
But of the road of life which I have 

travell'd, 
Ere I assumed this habit ; it was bounded, 
Hedged in, and limited by earthly pros- 
pects, 



As ours beneath was closed by dell and 
thicket. 

Here we see wide and far, and the broad 
sky, 

With wide horizon, opens full ardund, 

While earthly objects dwindle. Brother 
Ninian, 

Fain would I hope that mental elevation 

Could raise me equally o'er worldly 
thoughts, 

And place me nearer heaven. 
Nin. 'Tis good morality.— But yet 
forget not, 

That though we look on heaven from this 
high eminence, 

Yet doth the Prince of all the airy space, 

Arch-foe of man, possess the realms be- 
tween. 
Wal. Most true, good brother; and 
men may be farther 

From the bright heaven they aim at, even 
because 

They deem themselves secure on't. 

Nin. {after a pause). You do gaze — 

Strangers are wont to do so — on the pros- 
pect. 

Yon is the Tay roll'd down from Highland 
hills, 

That rests his waves, after so rude a race, 

In the fair plains of Gowrie — further west- 
ward, 

Proud Stirling rises — yonder to the east, ; 

Dundee, the gift of God, and fair Montrose, 

And still more northward lie the ancient 
towers—— 



480 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Wal. OfEdzell. 

Nin. How ? know you the 

towers of Edzell ? 
Wal. I've heard of them. 
Nin. Then have you 

heard a tale, 
Which when he tells, the peasant shakes 

his head, 
And shuns the mouldering and deserted 

walls. 
Wal. Why, and by whom, deserted ? 
Nin. Long the tale- 

Enough to say that the last Lord of 

Edzell, 
Bold Louis Lindesay, had a wife, and 

found 

Wal. Enough is said, indeed — since a 

weak woman, 
Ay, and a tempting fiend, lost Paradise, 
When man was innocent. 

Nin. They fell at strife, 

Men say, on slight occasion: that fierce 

Lindesay 
Did bend his sword against De Berkeley's 

breast, 
And that the lady threw herself between : 
That then De Berkeley dealt the Baron's 

death-wound. 
Enough, that from that time De Berkeley 

bore 
A spear in foreign wars. But, it is said, 
He hath return'd of late ; and, therefore, 

brother, 
The Prior hath ordain'd our vigil here, 
To watch the privilege of the sanctuary, 
And rights of Clan MacDuff. 
Wal. What rights are these ? 

Nin. Most true; you are but newly 

come from Rome 
And do not know our ancient usages. 
Know then, when fell Macbeth beneath 

the arm 
Of the predestined knight, unborn of 

woman, 
Three boons the victor ask'd, and thrice 

did Malcolm, 
Stooping the sceptre by the Thane re- 
stored, 
Assent to his request. And hence the 

rule, 
That first when Scotland's King assumes 

the crown, 
MacDuff's descendant rings his brow 

with it : 
And hence, when Scotland's King calls 

forth his host, 



MacDuff's descendant leads the van in 

battle : 
And last, in guerdon of the crown restored, 
Red with the blood of the usurping tyrant, 
The right was granted in succeeding time, 
That if a kinsman of the Thane of Fife 
Commit a slaughter on a sudden impulse, 
And fly for refuge to this Cross MacDuff, 
For the Thane's sake he shall find sanc- 
tuary ; 
For here must the avenger's step be staid, 
And here the panting homicide find safety. 
Wal. And here a brother of your order 

watches, 
To see the custom of the place observed ? 
Nin. Even so ; — such is our convent's 

holy right, 
Since Saint Magridius — blessed be his. 

memory ! — 
Did by a vision warn the Abbot Eadmir. 
And chief we watch, when there is bicker- 
ing 
Among the neighbouring nobles, now most 

likely 
From this return of Berkeley from abroad, 
Having the Lindesay's blood upon his 

hand. 
Wal. .The Lindesay, then, was loved 

among bis friends? 
Nin. Honour'd and fear'd he was — but 

little loved ; 
For even his bounty bore a show of stern- 
ness; 
And when his passions waked, he was a 

Sathan 
Of wrath and injury. 
Wal. How now, Sir Priest ! {fiercely) 

— Forgive me — {recollecting himself) 

— I was dreaming 
Of an old baron, who did bear about him 
Some touch of your Lord Reynold. 

Nin. Lindesay's name, my brother, 
Indeed was Reynold ; — and methinks, 

moreover, 
That, as you spoke even now, he would 

have spoken. 
I brought him a petition from our convent : 
He granted straight, but in such tone and 

manner, 
By my good saint! I thought myself 

scarce safe 
Till Tay roll'd broad between us. I must 

now 
Unto the chapel— meanwhile the watch is 

thine ; 
And, at thy word, the hurrying fugitive, 



MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



481 



Should such arrive, must here find sanc- 
tuary ; 
And, at thy word, the fiery-paced avenger 
Must stop his bloody course — e'en as swoln 

Jordan 
Controll'd his waves, soon as they touch'd 

the feet 
.Of those who bore the ark. 

Wal. Is this my charge ? 

Nin. Even so ; and I am near, should 

chance require me. 
At midnight I relieve you on your watch, 
When we may taste together some refresh- 

ment: 
I have cared for it; and for a flask of 

wine — 
There is no sin, so that we drink it not 
Until the midnight hour, when lauds have 

toll'd. 
Farewell a while, and peaceful watch be 

with you ! 

[Exit towards the Chapel. 

WAL. It is not with me, and alas ! alas ! 

I know not where to seek it. This monk's 

mind 
Is with his cloister match'd, nor lacks 

more room. 
Its petty duties, formal ritual, 
Its humble pleasures audits paltry troubles, 
Fill up his round of life ; even as some 

reptiles, 
They say, are moulded to the very shape, 
And all the angles of the rocky crevice, 
In which they live and die. But for my- 
self, 
Retired in passion to the narrow cell, 
Couching my tired limbs in its recesses, 
So ill-adapted am I to its limits, 

That every attitude is agony. 

How now ! what brings him back ? 

[Re-enter NiNlAN. 
Nin. Look to your watch, my brother 

— horsemen come ; 
I heard their tread when kneeling in the 

chapel. 
Wal. [looking to a distance). My 

thoughts have wrapt me more than 

thy devotion, 
Else had I heard the tread of distant horses 
Farther than thou couldst hear the sacring 

bell; 
But now in truth they come :— flight and 

pursuit 
Are sights I've been long strange to. 
Nin. See how they gallop down the 

opposing hill ! 



Yon gray steed bounding down the head- 
long path, 
As on the level meadow ; while the black, 
Urged by the rider with his naked sword, 
Stoops on his prey, as I have seen the falcon 
Dashing upon the heron. — Thou dost 

frown 
And clench thy hand, as if it grasp'd a 

weapon? 
Wal. 'Tis but for shame to see a man 

fly thus 
While only one pursues him. Coward, 

turn ! — 
Turn thee, I say ! thou art as stout as he, 
And well may'st match thy single sword 

with his — 
Shame, that a man should rein a steed like 

thee, 
Yet fear to turn his front against a foe ! — 
I am ashamed to look on them. 
Nin. Yet look again ; they quit their 

horses now, 
Unfit for the rough path : the fugitive 
Keeps the advantage still. They strain 

towards us. 
Wal. I'll not believe that ever the bold 

Thane 
Rear'd up his Cross to be a sanctuary 
To the base coward who shunn'd an equal 

combat. — 
How 's this?— that look, that mien— mine 

eyes grow dizzy ! 
Nin. He comes ! — thou art a novice on 

this watch, — 
Brother, I'll take the word and speak to 

him. 
Pluck down thy cowl : know, that we 

spiritual champions 
Have honour to maintain, and must not 

seem 
To quail before the laity. 

[Waldhave lets down his cowl, 
and steps back. 

Enter Maurice Berkeley. 

Nin. Who art thou, stranger? speak 

thy name and purpose. 
Ber. I claim the privilege of Clan Mac- 
duff. 
My name is Maurice Berkeley, and my 

lineage 
Allies me nearly with the Thane of Fife. 
Nin. Give us to know the cause of 

sanctuary? 
Ber. Let him show it, 

Against whose violence I claim the privilege. 

31 



432 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter LlNDESAY, with his sword drawn. 
He rushes at Berkeley; Ninian in- 
terposes. 

Nin. Peace, in the name of Saint Ma- 

gridius ! 
Peace, in our Prior's name, and in the name 
Of that dear symbol, which did purchase 

peace 
And good-will towards man! I do com- 
mand thee 
To sheathe thy sword, and stir no contest 

here. 
Lin. One charm I'll try first, 
To lure the craven from the enchanted circle 
Which he hath harbour'd in. — Hear you, 

De Berkeley, 
This is my brother's sword— the hand it 

arms 
Is weapon'd to avenge a brother's death : — 
If thou hast heart to step a furlong off, 
And change three blows, — even for so 

short a space 
As these good men may say an ave- 

marie, — 
So, Heaven be good to me ! I will forgive 

thee * 

Thy deed and all its consequences. 

Ber. Were not my right hand fetter'd 

by the thought 
That slaying thee were but a double guilt 
In which to steep my soul, no bridegroom 

ever 
Stepp'd forth to trip a measure with his bride 
More joyfully than I, young man, would 

rush 
To meet thy challenge. 

Lin. He quails, and shuns to look upon 

my weapon, 
Yet boasts himself a Berkeley ! 

Ber. Lindesay, and if there were no 

deeper cause 
For shunning thee than terror of thy 

weapon, 
That rock-hewn Cross as soon should start 

and stir, 
Because a shepherd-boy blew horn be- 
neath it, 
As I for brag of thine. 

Nin. I charge you both, and in the 

name of Heaven, 
Breathe no defiance on this sacred spot, 
Where Christian men must bear them 

peacefully, 
On pain of the Church thunders. Calmly 

tell 



Your cause of difference ; and, Lord Linde- 
say, thou 

Be first to speak them. 

Lin. Ask the blue welkin— ask the silver 
Tay, 

The Northern Grampians — all things know 
my wrongs ; 

But ask not me to tell them, while the 
villain, 

Who wrought them, stands and listens 
with a smile. 
Nin. It is said— 

Since you refer us thus to general fame- 
That Berkeley slew thy brother, the Lord 
Louis, 

In his own halls at Edzell 

Lin. Ay, in his halls — 

In his own halls, good father, that's the 
word. 

In his own halls he slew him, while the wine 

Pass'd on the board between ! The gallant 
Thane 

Who wreak'd Macbeth's inhospitable mur- 
der, 

Rear'd not yon Cross to sanction deeds 
like these. 
Ber. Thou say'st I came a guest! — I 
came a victim — 

A destined victim, train'd on to the doom 

His frantic jealousy prepared for me. 

He fix'd a quarrel on me, and we fought. 

Can I forget the form that came between us, 

And perish'd by his sword ? 'Twas then I 
fought 

For vengeance, — until then I guarded life, 

But then I sought to take it, and prevail'd. 
Lin. Wretch ! thou didst first dishonour 
to thy victim, 

And then didst slay him ! 

Ber. There is a busy fiend tugs at my 
heart, 

But I will struggle with it ! — Youthful 
knight, 

My heart issick of war, my hand of slaughter ; 

I come not to my lordships, or my land, 

But just to seekaspot in some cold cloister, 

Which I may kneel on living, and, when 
dead, 

Which may suffice to cover me. 

Forgive me that I caused your brother's 
death ; 

And I forgive thee the injurious terms 

With which thou taxest me. 

Lin. Take worse and blacker — Mur- 
derer! adulterer! 

Art thou not moved yet ? 



MACDUFF'S CROSS. 



483 



Ber. Do not press me further. 

The hunted stag, even when he seeks the 

thicket, 
Compell'd to stand at bay, grows danger- 
ous! 
Most true thy brother perish'd by myhand, 
And if you term it murder — I must bear it. 
Thus far my patience can; but if thou 

brand 
The purity of yonder martyr'd saint, 
Whom then my sword but poorly did 

avenge, 
With one injurious word, come tothevalley, 
And I will show thee how it shall be an- 

swer'd ! 
Nin. This heat, Lord Berkeley, doth 

but ill accord 
With thy late pious patience. 

Ber. Father, forgive, and let me stand 

excused 
To Heaven and thee, if patience brooks 

no more. 
I loved this lady — fondly, truly loved — 
Loved her, and was beloved, ere yet her 

father 
Conferr'd heron another. While shelived, 
Each thought of her was to my soul as hal- 

low'd 
As those I send to Heaven ; and on her 

grave, 
Her bloody, early grave, while this poor 

hand 
Can hold a sword, shall no one cast a scorn. 
Lin. Follow me. Thou shalt hear me 

call the adulteress 
By her right name. — I'm glad there is yet 

a spur 
Can rouse thy sluggard mettle. 
Ber. Make then obeisance to the bless- 
ed Cross, 
For it shall be on earth thy last devotion. 
[ They are going off. 
WAL. [rushing forward). Madmen, 

stand !— 
Stay but one second— answer but one 

question. — 
There, Maurice Berkeley, canst thou look 

upon 
That blessed sign, and swear thou'st 

spoken truth ? 
Ber. I swear by Heaven, 



And by the memory of that murder'd inno- 
cent, 
Each seeming charge against her was as 

false 
As our bless'd Lady's spotless ! — Hear, 

each saint ! 
Hear me, thou holy rood !— hear me from 

heaven, 
Thou martyr'd excellence ! — hear me from 

penal fire, 
(For sure not yet thy guilt is expiated !) 

Stern ghost of her destroyer ! 

WAL. [throws back his cowl) . He hears ! 

he hears! thy spell hath raised the 

dead. 
Lin. My brother! and alive ! — 
Wal. Alive,— but yet, my Richard, 

dead to thee, 
No tie of kindred binds me to the world ; 
All were renounced, when, with reviving 

life, 
Came the desire to seek the sacred cloister. 
Alas, in vain ! for to that last retreat, 
Like to a pack of bloodhounds in full 

chase, 
My passion and my wrongs have follow'd 

me, 
Wrath and remorse — and, to fill up the cry, 
Thou hast brought vengeance hither. 

Lin. I but sought 

To do the act and duty of a brother. 
Wal. I ceased to be so when I left the 

world ; 
But if he can forgive as I forgive, 
God sends me here a brother in mine 

enemy, 
To pray for me and with me. If thou 

canst, 
De Berkeley, give thine hand. — 

Ber. (gives his hand). It is the will 

Of Heaven, made manifest in thy pre- 
servation, 
To inhibit farther bloodshed ; for De 

Berkeley, 
The votary Maurice lays the title down. 
Go to his halls, Lord Richard, where a 

maiden, 
Kin to his blood, and daughter in affection, 
Heirs his broad lands ; — If thou canst love 

her, Lindesay, 
Woo her, and be successful* 



AUCHINDRANE; 

OR, 

THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



Cur aliquid vidi ? cur noxia lumina feci 1 
Cur imprudenti cognita culpa mihi est? 

Oziidii Tristunn, Liber Seciuidus. 



m 'There is hot, perhaps, upon record, a tale of horror which gives us a more perfect picture than 
is afforded by the present, of the violence of our ancestors, or the complicated crimes into which 
they were hurried, by what their wise, but ill-enforced, laws termed the heathenish and accursed 
.practice of Deadly Feud. The author has tried to extract some dramatic scenes out of it ; but 
he is conscious no exertions of his can increase the horror of that which is in itself so iniquitous. 
Yet, if we look at modern events, we must not too hastily venture to conclude that our own 
times have so much the superiority over former days as we might at first be tempted to infer. 
One great object has indeed been obtained : the power of the laws extends over the country 
universally, and if criminals at present sometimes escape punishment, this can only be by eluding 
justice, — not, as of old, by defying it. 

But the motives which influence modern ruffians to commit actions at which we pause with 
wonder and horror, arise, in a great measure, from the thirst of gain. For the hope of lucre, we 
have seen a wretch seduced to his fate, under the pretext that he was to share in amusement and 
conviviality ; and, for gold, we have seen the meanest of wretches deprived of life, and their 
miserable remains cheated of the grave. 

The loftier, if equally cruel, feelings of pride, ambition, and love of vengeance, were the idols 
of our forefathers, while the caitiffs of our day bend to Mammon, the meanest of the spirits who 
fell. The criminals, therefore, of former times, drew their hellish inspiration from a loftier source 
than is known to modern villains. The fever of unsated ambition, the frenzy of ungratified 
revenge, the perfervidum ingenium Scotorum, stigmatized by our jurists and our legislators, 
held life but as passing breath ; and such enormities as now sound like the acts of a madman, 
were then the familiar deeds of every offended noble. With these observations we proceed to 
our story. 

John Muir, or Mure, of Auchindrane, the contriver and executer of the following cruelties, 
was a gentleman of an ancient family and good estate in the west of Scotland ; bold, ambitious, 
treacherous to the last degree, and utterly unconscientious,— a Richard the Third in private life, 
inaccessible alike to pity and to remorse. His view was to raise the power and extend the 
grandeur of his own family. This gentleman had married the daughter of Sir Thomas Kennedy 
of Barganie, who was, excepting the Earl of Cassilis, the most important person in all Carrick, 
the district of Ayrshire which he inhabited, and where the name of Kennedy held so great a sway 
as to give rise to the popular rhyme, — 

"Twixt Wigton and the town of Air, 
Portpatrick and the Cruives of Cree, 
No man need think for to bide there, 
Unless he court Saint Kennedie." 

Now, Mure of Auchindrane, who had promised himself high advancement by means of his 
father-in-law Barganie, saw, with envy and resentment, that his influence remained second and 
inferior to the House of Cassilis, chief of all the Kennedys. The Earl was indeed a minor, but 
his authority was maintained, and his affairs well managed, by his uncle, Sir Thomas Kennedy 
of Cullayne, the brother of the deceased Earl, and tutor and guardian to the present. This 
worthy gentleman supported his nephew's dignity and the credit of the house so effectually, that 
Barganie's consequence was much thrown into the shade, and the ambitious Auchindrane, his 
son-in-law, saw no better remedy than to remove so formidable a rival as Cullayne by violent 
means. 

For this purpose, in the year of God 1597, he came with a party of followers to the town of 






A UCHINDRANE. 48 5 



Maybole (where Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne then resided), and lay in ambush in an 
orchard, through which he knew his destined victim was to pass, in returning homewards from a 
house where he was engaged to sup. Sir Thomas Kennedy came alone, and unattended, when 
he was suddenly fired upon by Auchindrane and his accomplices, who, having missed their aim, 
drew their swords, and rushed upon him to slay him. But the partythus assailed at disadvan- 
tage, had the good fortune to hide himself for that time in a ruinous house, where he lay 
concealed till the inhabitants of the place came to his assistance. 

Sir Thomas Kennedy prosecuted Mure for this assault, who, finding himself in danger from 
the law, made a sort of apology and agreement with the Lord of Cullayne, to whose daughter he 
united his eldest son, in testimony of the closest friendship in future. This agreement was sin- 
cere on the part of Kennedy, who, after it had been entered into, showed himself Auchindrane's 
friend and assistant on all occasions. But it was most false and treacherous on that of Mure, who 
continued to nourish the purpose of murdering his new friend and ally on the first opportunity. 

Auchindrane's first attempt to effect this was by means of the young Gilbert Kennedy of 
Barganie (for old Barganie, Auchindrane's father-in-law, was dead), whom he persuaded to 
brave the Earl of Cassilis, as one who usurped an undue influence over the rest of the name. 
Accordingly, this hot-headed youth, at the instigation of Auchindrane, rode past the gate of the 
Earl of Cassilis, without waiting on his chief, or sending him any message of civility. This led 
to. mutual defiance, being regarded by the Earl, according to the ideas of the time, as a personal 
insult. Both parties took the field with their followers, at the head of about 250 men on each side. 
The action which ensued was shorter and less bloody than might have been expected. Young 
Barganie, with the rashness of headlong courage, and Auchindrane, fired by deadly enmity to the 
House of Cassilis, made a precipitate attack on the Earl, whose men were strongly posted, and 
under cover. They were received by a heavy fire. Barganie was slain. Mure of Auchindrane, 
severely wounded in the thigh, became unable to sit his horse, and, the leaders thus slain or dis- 
abled, their party drew off without continuing the action. It must be particularly observed, that 
Sir Thomas Kennedy remained neuter in this quarrel, considering his connection with Auchindrane 
as too intimate to be broken even by his desire to assist his nephew. 

For this temperate and honourable conduct he met a vile reward ; for Auchindrane, in resent- 
ment of the loss of his relative Barganie, and the downfall of his ambitious hopes, continued his 
practices against the life of Sir Thomas of Cullayne, though totally innocent of contributing to 
either. Chance favoured his wicked purpose. 

The Knight of Cullayne, finding himself obliged to go to Edinburgh on a particular day, sent 
a message by a servant to Mure, in which he told him, in the most unsuspecting confidence, the 
purpose of his journey, and named the road which he proposed to take, inviting Mure to meet 
him at Duppill, to the west of the town of Ayr, a place appointed, for the purpose of giving him 
any commissions which he might have for Edinburgh, and assuring his treacherous ally he would 
attend to any business which he might have in the Scottish metropolis as anxiously as to his own. 
Sir Thomas Kennedy's message was carried to the town of Maybole, where his messenger, for 
some trivial reason, had the import committed to writing by a schoolmaster in that town, and 
despatched it to its destination by means of a poor student, named Dalrymple, instead of carrying 
it to the house of Auchindrane in person. 

This suggested to Mure a diabolical plot. Having thus received tidings of Sir Thomas Ken- 
nedy's motions, he conceived the infernal purpose of having the confiding friend who sent the 
information, waylaid and murdered at the place appointed to meet with him, not only in friend- 
ship, but for the purpose of rendering him service. He dismissed the messenger Dalrymple, 
cautioning the lad to carry back the letter to Maybole, and to say that he had not found him, 
Auchindrane, in his house. Having taken this precaution, he proceeded to instigate the brother 
of the slain Gilbert of Barganie, Thomas Kennedy of Drumurghie by name, and Walter Muir of 
Cloncaird, a kinsman of his own, to take this opportunity of revenging Barganie's death. The fiery 
young men were easily induced to undertake the crime. They waylaid the unsuspecting Sir 
Thomas of Cullayne at the place appointed to meet the traitor Auchindrane, and the murderers 
having in company five or six servants, well mounted and armed, assaulted and cruelly murdered 
him with many wounds. They then plundered the dead corpse of his purse, containing a thou- 
sand merks in gold, cut off the gold buttons which he wore on his coat, and despoiled the body 
of some valuable rings and jewels. 

The revenge due for his uncle's murder was keenly pursued by the Earl of Cassilis. As the 
murderers fled from trial, they were declared outlaws ; which doom, being pronounced by three 
blasts of a horn, was called " being put to the horn, and declared the king's rebel." Mure of 
Auchindrane was strongly suspected of having been the instigator of the crime. But he conceived 
there could be no evidence to prove his guilt if he could keep the boy Dalrymple out of the way, 
who delivered the letter which made him acquainted with Cullayne's journey, and the place at 
which he meant to halt. On the contrary, he saw, that if the lad could be produced at the trial, 
it would afford ground of fatal presumption, since it could be then proved that persons so nearly 
connected with him as Kennedy and Cloncaird had left his house, and committed the murder at 
the very spot which Cullayne had faxed for their meeting. 



486 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To avoid this imminent danger, Mure brought Dalrymple to his house, and detained him there 
for several weeks. But the youth tiring of this confinement, Mure sent him to reside with a 
friend, Montgomery of Skellmorly, who maintained him under a borrowed name, amid the desert 
regions of the then almost savage island of Arran. Being confident in the absence of 'this material 
witness, Auchindrane, instead of flying, like his agents Drumurghie and Cloncaird, presented 
himself boldly at the bar, demanded a fair trial, and offered his person in combat to the death 
against any of Lord Cassilis's friends who might impugn his innocence. This audacity was suc- 
cessful, and he was dismissed without trial. 

Still, however, Mure did not consider himself safe, so long as Dalrymple was within the realm 
of Scotland ; and the danger grew more pressing when he learned that the lad had become im- 
patient of the restraint which he sustained in the island of Arran, and returned to some of his 
friends in Ayrshire. Mure no sooner heard of this than he again obtained possession of the boy's 
person, and a second time concealed him at Auchindrane, until he found an opportunity to trans- 
port him to the Low Countries, where he contrived to have him enlisted in Buccleuch's regiment, 
trusting, doubtless, that some one of the numerous chances of war might destroy the poor young 
man whose life was so dangerous to him. 

But after five or six years' uncertain safety, bought at the expense of so much violence and 
cunning, Auchindrane's fears were exasperated into frenzy, when he found this dangerous witness, 
having escaped from all the perils of climate and battle, had left, or been discharged from, the 
Legion of Borderers, and had again accomplished his return to Ayrshire. There is ground to sus- 
pect that Dalrymple knew the nature of the hold which he possessed over Auchindrane, and was 
desirous of extorting from his fears some better provision than he had found either in Arran or 
the Netherlands. But if so, it was a fatal experiment to tamper with the fears of such a man as 
Auchindrane, who determined to rid himself effectually of this unhappy young man. 

Mure now lodged him in a house of his own, called Chapeldonan, tenanted by a vassal and 
connection of his, called James Bannatyne. This man he commissioned to meet him at ten o'clock 
at night on the sea-sands near Girvan, and bring with him the unfortunate Dalrympie.the object 
of his fear and dread. The victim seems to have come with Bannatyne without the least suspi- 
cion, though such might have been raised by the time and place appointed for the meeting. When 
Bannatyne and Dalrymple came to the appointed spot, Auchindrane met them, accompanied by 
his eldest son, James. Old Auchindrane, having taken Bannatyne aside, imparted his bloody 
purpose of ridding himself of Dalrymple for ever, by murdering him on the spot. His own life 
and honour were, he said, endangered by the manner in which this inconvenient witness re- 
peatedly thrust himself back into Ayrshire, and nothing could secure his safety but taking the lad's 
life, in which action he requested James Bannatyne's assistance. Bannatyne felt some compunc- 
tion, and remonstrated against the cruel expedient, saying, it would be better to transport Dal- 
rymple to Ireland, and take precautions against his return. While old Auchindrane seemed dis- 
posed to listen to this proposal, his son concluded that the time was come for accomplishing the 
purpose of their meeting, and, without waiting the termination of his father's conference with 
Bannatyne, he rushed suddenly on Dalrymple, beat him to the ground, and, kneeling down on 
him, with his father's assistance accomplished the crime by strangling the unhappy object of their 
fear and jealousy. Bannatyne, the witness, and partly the accomplice, of the murder, assisted 
them in their attempt to make a hole in the sand, with a spade which they had brought on pur- 
pose, in order to conceal the dead body. But as the tide was coming in, the holes which they 
made filled with water before they could get the body buried, and the ground seemed to their 
terrified consciences to refuse to be accessory'' to concealing their crime. Despairing of hiding 
the corpse in the manner they proposed, the murderers carried it out into the sea as deep as 
they dared wade, and there abandoned it to the billows, trusting that a wind, which was blowing 
off the shore, would drive these remains of their crime out to sea, where they would never more 
be hearti of. But the sea, as well as the land, seemed unwilling to conceal their cruelty. After 
floating for some hours, or days, the dead body was, by the wind and tide, again driven on shore, 
near the very spot where the murder had been committed. - 

This attracted general attention, and when the corpse was known to be that of the same 
William Dalrymple whom Auchindrane had so often spirited out of the country, or concealed 
when he was in it, a strong and general suspicion arose, that this young person had met with foul 
play from the bold bad man who had shown himself so much interested in his absence. It was 
always said or supposed, that the dead body had bled at the approach of a grandchild of Mure 
of Auchindrane, a girl who, from curiosity, had come to look at a sight which others crowded to 
see. The bleeding of a murdered corpse at the touch of the murderer, was a thing at that time 
so much believed, that it was admitted as a proof of guilt ; but I know no case, save that of 
Auchindrane, iu which the phenomenon was supposed to be extended to the approach of the 
innocent kindred ; nor do I think that the fact itself, though mentioned by ancient lawyers, was 
ever admitted to proof in the proceedings against Auchindrane. 

It is certain, however, that Auchindrane found himself so much the object of suspicion from 
this new crime, that he resolved to fly from justice, and suffer himself to be declared a rebel and 
outlaw rather than face a trial. But his conduct in preparing to cover his flight with another 



" 



A UCHINDRANE. 4§7 



motive than the real one, is a curious picture of the men and manners of the times. He knew 
well that if he were to shun his trial for the murder of Dalrymple, the whole country would con- 
sider him as a man guilty of a mean and disgraceful crime in putting to death an obscure lad, 
against whom he had no personal quarrel. He knew, besides, that his powerful friends, who 
would have interceded for him had his offence been merely burning a house, or killing a neigh- 
bour, would not plead for or stand by him in so pitiful a concern as the slaughter of this wretched 
wanderer. 

Accordingly, Mure sought to provide himself with some ostensible" cause for avoiding law, 
with which the feelings of his kindred and friends might sympathize ; and none occurred to him 
so natural as an assault upon some friend and adherent of the Earl of Cassilis. Should he kill 
such a one, it would be indeed an unlawful action, but so far from being infamous, would be 
accounted the natural consequence of the avowed quarrel between the families. With this pur- 
pose, Mure, with the assistance of a relative, of whom he seems always to have had some ready 
to execute his worst purposes, beset Hugh Kennedy of Garriehorne, a follower of the Earl's, 
against whom they had especial ill-will, fired their pistols at hiin, and used other means to put 
him to death, cut Garriehorne, a stout-hearted man, and well-armed, defended himself in a 
very different manner from the unfortunate Knight of Cullayne, and beat off the assailants, 
wounding young Auchindrane in the right hand, so that he well-nigh lost the use of it. 

But though Auchindrane's purpose d.d not entirely succeed, he availed himself of it to circu- 
late a report, that if he could obtain a pardon for firing upon his feudal enemy with pistols, 
weapons declared unlawful by Act of Parliament, he would willingly stand his trial for the death 
of Dalrymple, respecting which he protested his total innocence. The King, however, was 
decidedly of opinion that the Mures, both father and son, were alike guilty of both crimes, and 
used intercession with the Earl of Abercorn, as a person of power in those western counties, as 
well as in Ireland, to arrest and transmit them prisoners to Edinburgh. In consequence of the 
Earl's exertions, old Auchindrane was made prisoner, and lodged in the tolbooth of Edinburgh. 

Young Auchindrane no sooner heard that his father was in custody, than he became as 
apprehensive of Bannatyne (the accomplice in Dalrymple's murder) telling tales, as ever his 
father had been of Dalrymple. He therefore hastened to him, and prevailed on him to pass 
over for a while to the neighbouring coast of Ireland, finding him money and means to accom- 
plish the voyage, and engaging in the mean time to take care of his affairs in Scotland. Secure, 
as they thought, in this precaution, old Auchindrane persisted in his innocence, and his son 
found security to stand his trial. Both appeared with the same confidence at the day appointed, 
and braved the public justice, hoping to be put to a formal trial, in which Auchindrane reckoned 
upon an acquittal for want of the evidence which he had removed. The trial was, however, 
postponed, and Mure the elder was dismissed, under high security to return when called for. 

But King James, being convinced of the guilt of the accused, ordered young Auchindrane, 
instead of being sent to trial, to be examined under the force of torture, in order to compel him 
to tell whatever he knew of the things charged against him. He was accordingly severely 
tortured ; but the result only served to show that such examinations are as useless as they are 
cruel. A man of weak resolution, or of a nervous habit, would probably have assented to any 
confession, however false, rather than have endured the extremity of fear and pain to which 
Mure was subjected. But young Auchindrane, a strong and determined ruffian, endured the 
torture with the utmost firmness, and by the constant audacity with which, in spite of the intoler- 
able pain, he continued to assert his innocence, he spread so favourable an opinion of his case, 
that the detaining him in prison, instead of bringing him to open trial, was censured as severe 
and oppressive. James, however, remained firmly persuaded of his guilt, and by an exertion of 
authority quite inconsistent with our present laws, commanded young Auchindrane to be still 
detained in close custody till further light could be thrown on these dark proceedings. He was 
detained accordingly by the King's express personal command, and against the opinion even of 
his privy councillors. This exertion of authority was much murmured against. 

In the mean while, old Auchindrane, being, as we have seen, at liberty on pledges, skulked aoout 
in the west, feeling how little security he had gained by Dalrymple's murder, and that he had 
placed himself by that crime in the power of Bannatyne, whose evidence concerning the death of 
Dalrymple could not be less fatal than what Dalrymple might have told concerning Auchindrane's 
accession to the conspiracy against Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne. But though the event 
had shown the error of his wicked policy, Auchindrane could think of no better mode in this case 
than that which had failed in relation to Dalrymple. When any man's life became inconsistent 
with his own safety, no idea seems to have occurred to this inveterate ruffian, save to murder the 
person by whom he might himself be in any way endangered. He therefore attempted the life of 
James Bannatyne bymore agents than one. Nay,.hehad nearly ripened a plan by which one Penny- 
cuke was to be employed to slay Bannatyne, while, after the deed was done, it was devised that 
Mure of Auchnull, a connection of Bannatyne, should be instigated to slay Pennycuke ; and thus 
close up this train of murders by one, which, flowing in the ordinary course of deadly feud, 
should have nothing in it so particular as to attract much attention.^ 

But the justice of Heaven would bear this complicated train of iniquity no longer. Bannatyne, 



488 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



knowing with what sort of men he had to deal, kept on his guard, and, by his caution, discon- 
certed more than one attempt to take his life, while another miscarried by the remorse of Penny- 
cuke, the agent whom Mure employed. At length Bannatyne, tiring of this state of insecurity, 
and in despair of escaping such repeated plots, and also feeling remorse for the crime to which he 
had been accessory, resolved rather to submit himself to the severity of the law, than remain the 
object of the principal criminal's practices. He surrendered himself to the Earl of Abercorn, and 
was transported to Edinburgh, where he confessed before the King and council all the particulars 
of the murder of Dalrymple, and the attempt to hide his body by committing it to the sea. 

When Bannatyne was confronted with the two Mures before the Privy Council, they denied 
with vehemence every part of the evidence he had given, and affirmed that the witness had been 
bribed to destroy them by a false tale. Bannatyne's behaviour seemed sincere and simple, that 
of Auchindrane more resolute and crafty. The wretched accomplice fell upon his knees, invok- 
ing God to witness that all the land in Scotland could not have bribed him to bring a false accus- 
ation against a master whom he had served, loved, and followed in so many dangers, and calling 
upon Auchindrane to honour God by confessing the crime he had committed. Mure the elder, 
on the other hand, boldly replied, that he hoped God would not so far forsake him as to permit him 
to confess t. crime of which he was innocent, and exhorted Bannatyne in his turn to confess the 
practices by which he had been induced to devise such falsehoods against him. 

The two Mures, father and son, were therefore put upon their solemn trial along with Banna- 
tyne, in 1611, and, after a great deal of evidence had been brought in support of Bannatyne's 
confession, all these were found guilty. The elder Auchindrane was convicted of counselling and 
directing the murder of Sir Thomas Kennedy of Cullayne, and also of the actual murder of the 
lad Dalrymple. Bannatyne and the younger Mure were found guilty of the latter crime, and all 
three were sentenced to be beheaded. Bannatyne, however, the accomplice, received the King's 
pardon, in consequence of his voluntary surrender and confession. The two Mures were both 
executed. The younger was affected by the remonstrances of the clergy who attended him, and 
he confessed the guilt of which he was accused. The father, also, was at length brought to avow 
the fact, but in other respects died as impenitent as he had lived ; — and so ended this dark and 
extraordinary tragedy. 

The Lord Advocate of the day, Sir Thomas Hamilton, afterwards successively Earl of Melrose 
and of Haddington, seems to have busied himself much in drawing up a statement of this foul 
transaction, for the purpose of vindicating to the people of Scotland the severe course of justice 
observed by King James VI. He assumes the task in a high tone of prerogative law, and, on the 
whole, seems at a loss whether to attribute to Providence, or to his most sacred Majesty, the 
greatest share in bringing to light these mysterious villanies, but rather inclines to the latter 
opinion. There is, I believe, no printed copy of the intended tract, which seems never to have 
ibeen published ; but the curious will be enabled to judge of it, as it appears in the next fasciculus 
of Mr. Robert Pitcairn's very interesting publications from the Scottish Criminal Record. 

The family of Auchindrane did not become extinct on the death of the two homicides. The 
last descendant existed in the eighteenth century, a poor and distressed man. The following 
anecdote shows that he had a strong feeling of his situation. 

There was in front of the old castle a huge ash-tree, called the Dule-tree {mourning-tree} of 
Auchindrane, probably because it was the place where the baron executed the criminals who fell 
under his jurisdiction. It is described as having been the finest tree of the neighbourhood. This 
last representative of the family of Auchindrane had the misfortune to be arrested for payment 
of a small debt; and, unable to discharge it, was preparing to accompany the messenger (bailiff) 
to the jail of Ayr. The servant of the law had compassion for his prisoner, and offered to accept 
of this remarkable tree as of value adequate to the discharge of the debt. " What ! " said the 
debtor — "sell the Dule-tree of Auchindrane ! I will sooner die in the worst dungeon of your 
prison." Tn this luckless character the line of Auchindrane ended. The family, blackened with 
the crimes of its predecessors, became extinct, and the estate passed into other hands. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

■John Mure of Auchindrane, an Ayrshire Baron. He has been a follower of the Regent 
Earl of Morton, during the Civil Wars, and hides an oppressive, ferocious, and unscrupulous 
disposition, under some pretences to strictness of life and doctrine, which, however, ne\«r in- 
fluence his conduct. He is in danger from the law, owing to his having been formerly active 
in the assassination of the Earl of Cassilis. 

Philip Mure, his Son, a wild, debauched profligate, professing and practising a contempt for his 
father's hypocrisy, while he is as fierce and licentious as Auchindrane himself 

Gifford, their Relation, a Courtier. 

Quentin Blane, a Youth, educated for a Clergyman, but sent by Auchindrane to serve in a 



AUCHINDRANE. 



489 



Band of Auxiliaries in the wars of the Netherlands, and lately employed as Clerk or Comp- 
troller to the Regiment — disbanded, however, and on his return to his native Country. He is 
of a mild, gentle, and rather feeble character, liable to be influenced by any person of stronger 
mind who will take the trouble to direct him. He is somewhat of a nervous temperament, vary- 
ing from sadness to gaiety, according to the impulse of the moment ; an amiable hypochondriac. 
Hildebrand, a stout old Englishman, who, by feats of courage, has raised himself to the rank 
of Sergeant-Major (then of greater consequence than at present). He, too, has been disbanded, 
but cannot bring himself to believe that he has lost his command over his Regiment. 



Abraham, 
Williams, 
Jenkin, 
And O titers, 



Privates dismissed from tlie same Regiment hi •which Quentin and Hilde- 
brand had served. These are mutinous, and are much disposed to remember 
former quarrels with their late officers. 



on Offenders. 



Neil MacLellan, Keeper of Auchindrane Forest and Game. 

Earlof Dunbar, commanding an Army as Lieutenant of James I., for execution of Justice 

Guards, Attendants, &c. &*c. 

Marion, Wife of Neil MacLellan. 

Isabel, their Daughter, a Girl of six years old. 

O titer Children a?id Peasant Women. 



AUCHINDRANE; 

OR, 

THE AYRSHIRE TRAGEDY. 



ACT I.— Scene I. 
A rocky Bay on the Coast of Carrick, in 
Ayrshire, not far from the Point of 
Turnberry. The sea comes in upon a 
bold rocky Shore. The remains of a 
small half-ruined Tower are seen on the 
right hand, overhanging the sea. There 
is a Vessel at a distance in the offing. A 
Boat at the bottom of the Stage lands 
eight or ten persons, dressed like dis- 
banded, and in one or two cases like dis- 
abled, Soldiers. They co?ne straggling 
forward with their knapsacks and bun- 
dles. Hildebrand, the Sergeant be- 
longing to the party, a stout elderly man, 
stands by the boat, as if superintending 
the disembarkation. Quentin remains 
apart. 

Abraham. Farewell the flats of Hol- 
land, and right welcome 

The cliffs of Scotland ! Fare thee well, 
black beer 

And Schiedam gin! and welcome two- 
penny, 



Oatcakes, and usquebaugh ! 
Williams {who wants an arm). Fare- 
well the gallant field, and " Forward, 
pikemen ! " 

For the bridge-end, the suburb, and the 
lane — 

And, "Bless your honour, noble gentle- 
man, 

Remember a poor soldier ! " 
Abr. My tongue shall never need to 
smooth itself 

To such poor sounds, while it can boldly say, 

"Stand and deliver ! " 
Wil. Hush ! the sergeant hears you. 
Abr. And let him hear; he makes a 
bustle yonder, 

And dreams of his authority, forgetting 

We are disbanded men, o'er whom his 
halberd 

Has not such influence as the beadle's 
baton. 

We are no soldiers now, but every one 

The lord of his own person. 
Wil. A wretched lordship— and our 
freedom such 



49o 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



As that of the old cart-horse, when the 

owner 
Turns him upon the common. I for one 
Will still continue to respect the sergeant, 
And the comptroller, too, — while the cash 

lasts. 
Abr. I scorn them both. I am too 

stout a Scotsman 
To bear a Southron's rule an instant longer 
Than discipline obliges ; and for Quentin, 
Quentin the quillman, Quentin the comp- 
troller, 
We have no regiment now ; or, if we 

had, 
Quentin's no longer clerk to it. 
Wil. For shame! for shame! — What, 

shall old comrades jar thus, 
And on the verge of parting, and for 

ever? — 
Nay, keep thy temper, Abraham, though 

a bad one. — 
Good Master Quentin, let thy song last 

night 
Give us once more our welcome to old 

Scotland. 
Abr. Ay, they sing light whose task is 

telling money, 
When dollars clink for chorus. 
Que. I've done with counting silver, 

honest Abraham, 
As thou, I fear, with pouching thy small 

share on't. 
But lend your voices, lads, and I will sing 
As blithely yet as if a town were won ; 
As if upon a field of battle gain'd, 
Our banners waved victorious. — (He sings, 

and the rest bear chorus.) 

SONG. 

Hither we come, 

Once slaves to the drum, 
But no longer we list to its rattle ; 

Adieu to the wars, 

With their slashes and scars, 
The march, and the storm, and the battle. 

There are some of us maim'd, 

And some that are lamed, 
And some of old aches are complaining ; 

But we'll take up the tools, 

Which we flung by like fools, 
Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaign- 
ing. 

Dick Hathorn doth vow 
To return to the plough, 
Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer ; 



The weaver shall find room 
At the wight-wapping loom, 
And your clerk shall teach writing and 
grammar. 

Abr. And this is all that thou canst do, 
gay Quentin ? 

To swagger o'er a herd of parish brats, 

Cut cheese or dibble onions with thy 
poniard, 

And turn the sheath into a ferula ? 
Que. I am the prodigal in holy writ ; 

I cannot work — to beg I am ashamed. 

Besides, good mates, I care not who may 
know it, 

I'm e'en as fairly tired of this same fighting, 

As the poor cur that's worried in the 
shambles 

By all the mastiff dogs of all the butchers ; 

Wherefore, farewell sword, poniard, petro- 
nel, 

And welcome poverty and peaceful labour. 
Abr. Clerk Quentin, if of fighting thou 
art tired, 

By my good word, thou'rt quickly satisfied, 

For thou'st seen but little on't. 
Wil. Thou dost belie him — I have seen 
him fight 

Bravely enough for one in his condition. 
Abr. What he? that counter-casting, 
smock-faced boy? 

What was he but the colonel's scribbling 
drudge, 

With men of straw to stuff the regiment 
roll; 

With cipherings unjust to cheat his com- 
rades, 

And cloak false musters for our noble cap- 
tain ? 

He bid farewell to sword and petronel ! 

He should have said, farewell my pen and 
standish. 

These, with the rosinused to hide erasures, 

Were the best friends he left in camp 
behind him. 
Que. The sword you scoff at is not far, 
but scorns 

The threats of an unmanner'd mutineer. 
Ser. (interposes). We'll have no brawl- 
ing — Shall it e'er be said, 

That being comrades six long years to- 
gether, 

While gulping down the frowsy fogs of 
Holland, 

We tilted at each other's throats so soon 

As the first draught of native air refresh'd 
them? 



; 



AUCHINDRANE. 



491 



No! by Saint Dunstan, I forbid the combat. 

You all, methinks, do know this trusty 
halberd ; 

For I opine, that every back amongst you 

Hath felt the weight of the tough ashen 
staff, 

Endlong or overthwart. Who is it wishes 

A remembrancer now ? (Raises his hal- 
berd.) 
Abr. Comrades, have you ears 

To hear the old man bully?— eyes to see 

His staff rear'd o'er your heads, as o'er 
the hounds 

The huntsman cracks his whip? 

WiL. Well said! — stout Abraham has 
the right on't. — 

I tell thee, Serjeant, we do reverence thee, 

And pardon the rash humours thou hast 
caught, 

Like wiser men, from thy authority. 

'Tis ended, howsoe'er, and we'll not suffer 

A word of serjeantry, or halberd-staff, 

Nor the most petty threat of discipline. 

If thou wilt lay aside thy pride of office, 

And drop thy wont of swaggering and 
commanding, 

Thou art our comrade still for good or evil. 

Else take thy course apart, or with the 
clerk there — 

A serjeant thou, and he being all thy regi- 
ment. 
Ser. Is't come to this, false knaves? 
And think you not, 

That if you bear a name o'er other soldiers, 

It was because vou follow'd to the charge 

One that had zeal and skill enough to lead 
you 

Where fame was won by danger? 
WiL. We grant thy skill in leading, 
noble sergeant ; 

Witness some empty boots and sleeves 
amongst us, 

Which else had still been tenanted with 
limbs 

In the full quantity; and for the argu- 
ments 

With which you used to back our resolu- 
tion, 

Our shoulders do record them. At a word, 

Will you conform, or must we part our 
* company? 

Ser. Conform to you? Base dogs ! I 
would not lead you 

A bolt-flight farther to be made a general. 

Mean mutineers ! when you svvill'd off the 
dregs 



Of my poor sea-stores, it was, ' ' Noble 

Sergeant ! — 
Heaven bless old Hildebrand ! — we'll fol- 
low him, 
At least, until we safely see him lodged 
Within the merry bounds of his own Eng- 
land!" 
WiL. Ay, truly, sir ; but, mark, the ale 
was mighty, 
And the Geneva potent. Such stout liquor 
Makes violent protestations. Skink it 

round, 
If you have any left, to the same tune, 
And we may find a chorus for it still. 
Abr. We lose our time. — Tell us at 
once, old man, 
If thou wilt march with us, or stay with 
Quentin? 
Ser. Out, mutineers ! Dishonour dog 

your heels ! 
Abr. Wilful will have his way. Adieu, 
stout Hildebrand ! 

[The Soldiers go off lazighing, and 
taking leave, with mockery, of 
the Sergeant and Quentin, 
who remain on the Stage. 
Ser. (after a pause). Fly you not with 
the rest !— fail you to follow 
Yon goodly fellowship and fair example? 
Come, take your wild-goose flight. I 

know you Scots, 
Like your own sea-fowl, seek your course 
together. 
Que. Faith, a poor heron I, who wing 
my flight 
In loneliness, or with a single partner ; 
And right it is that I should seek for soli- 
tude, 
Bringing but evil luck on them I herd with. 
Ser. Thou'rt thankless. Had we land- 
ed on the coast, 
Where our course bore us, thou wert far 

from home ; 
But the fierce wind that drove us round 

the island, 
Barring each port and inlet that we aim'd 

at, 
Hath wafted thee to harbour; for I judge 
This is thy native land we disembark on. 
Que. True, worthy friend. Each rock, 
each stream I look on, 
Each bosky wood, and every frowning 

tower, 
Awakens some young dream of infancy. 
Yet such is my hard hap, I might more 
safely 



492 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Have look'd on Indian cliffs, or Afric's 
desert, 

Than on my native shores. I'm like a babe 

Doom'd to draw poison from my nurse's 
bosom. 
Ser. Thou dream'st, young man. Un- 
real terrors haunt, 

As I have noted, giddy brains like thine — 

Flighty, poetic, and imaginative — 

To whom a minstrel whim gives idle rap- 
ture, 

And, when it fades, fantastic misery. 
Que. But mine is not fantastic. I can 
tell thee, 

Since I have known thee still my faithful 
friend, 

In part at least the dangerous plight I 
stand in. 
Ser. And I will hear thee willingly, the 
rather, 

That I would let these vagabonds march 
on, 

Nor join their troop again. Besides, good 
sooth, 

I'm wearied with the toil of yesterday, 

And revel of last night. — And I may aid 
thee; 

Yes, I may aid thee, comrade, and per- 
chance 

Thou may'st advantage me. 

Que. May it prove well for both ! — But 
note, my friend, 

I can but intimate my mystic story. 

Some of it lies so secret, — even the winds 

That whistle round us must not know the 
whole — 

An oath ! — an oath ! 

Ser. That must be kept, of course. 

I ask but that which thou may'st freely 
tell. 
Que. I was an orphan boy, and first 
saw light 

Not far from where we stand — my lineage 
low, 

But honest in its poverty. A lord, 

The master of the soil for many a mile, 

Dreaded and powerful, took a kindly 
charge 

For my advance in letters, and the qualities 

Of the poor orphan lad drew some ap- 
plause. 

The knight was proud of me, and, in his 
halls, 

I had such kind of welcome as the great 

Give to the humble, whom they love to 
point to 



As objects not unworthy their protection, 
Whose progress is some honour to their 

patron — 
A cure was spoken of, which I might 

serve, 
My manners, doctrine, and acquirements 

fitting. 
Ser. Hitherto thy luck 
Was of the best, good friend. Few lords 

had cared 
If thou couldst read thy grammar or thy 

psalter : 
Thou hadst been valued couldst thou scour 

a harness, 
And dress a steed distinctly. 

Que. My old master 

Held different doctrine, at least it seem'd 

so — 
But he was mix'd in many a deadly feud — 
And here my tale grows mystic. I became, 
Unwitting and unwilling, the depositary 
Of a dread secret, and the knowledge on't 
Has wreck'd my peace for ever. It be- 
came 
My patron's will, that I, as one who knew 
More than I should, must leave the realm 

of Scotland, 
And live or die within a distant land. 
Ser. Ah ! thou hast done a fault in 

some wild raid, 
As you wild Scotsmen call them. 

Que. Comrade, nay; 

Mine was a peaceful part, and happ'd by 

chance. 
I must not tell you more. Enough, my 

presence 
Brought danger to my benefactor's house. 
Tower after tower conceal'd me, willing 

still 
To hide my ill-omen'd face with owls and 

ravens, 
And let my patron's safety be the purchase 
Of my severe and desolate captivity. 
So thought I, when dark Arran, with its 

walls 
Of native rock, enclosed me. There I 

lurk'd, 
A peaceful stranger amid armed clans, 
Without a friend to love or to defend me, 
Where all beside were link'd by close 

alliances. 
At length I made my option to take service 
In that same legion of auxiliaries 
In which we lately served the Belgian. 
Our leader, stout Montgomery, bath been 

kind 



AUCHWDRANE. 



493 



Through full six years of warfare, and 

assign'd me 
More peaceful tasks than the rough front 

of war, 
For which my education little suited me. 
Ser. Ay, therein was Montgomery kind 

indeed ; 
Nay, kinder than you think, my simple 

Quentim. 
The letters which you brought to the 

Montgomery, 
Pointed to thrust thee on some desperate 

service, 
Which should most likely end thee. 
Que. Bore I such letters? — Surely, 

comrade, no. 
Full deeply was the writer bound to aid me. 
Perchance he only meant to prove my 

mettle ; 
And it was but a trick of my bad fortune 
That gave his letters ill interpretation. 
Ser. Ay, but thy better angel wrought 

for good, 
Whatever ill thy evil fate design'd thee. 
Montgomery pitied thee, and changed thy 

service 
In the rough field for labour in the tent, 
More fit for thy green years and peaceful 

habits. 
Que. Even there his well-meant kind- 
ness injured me. 
My comrades hated, undervalued me, 
And whatsoe'er of service I could do them, 
They guerdon'd with ingratitude and 

envy — 
Such my strange doom, that if I serve a 

man 
At deepest risk, he is my foe for ever ! 
Ser. Hast thou worse fate than others 

if it were so ? 
Worse even than me, thy friend, thine 

officer, 
Whom yon ungrateful slaves have pitch'd 

ashore, 
As wild waves heap the sea-weed on the 

beach, 
And left him here, as if he had the pest 
Or leprosy, and death were in his company? 
Que. They think at least you have the 

worst of plagues, 
T.he worst of leprosies, — they think you 

poor. 
Ser. They think like lying villains then ; 

— I'm rich, 
And they too might have felt it. I've a 

thought — 



But stay — what plans your wisdom for 
yourself? 
Que. My thoughts are well-nigh des- 
perate. But I purpose 

Return to my stern patron — there to tell 
him 

That wars, and winds, and waves, have 
cross'd his pleasure, 

And cast me on the shore from whence he 
banish'd me. 

Then let him do his will, and destine for 
me 

A dungeon or a grave. 

Ser. Now, by the rood, thou art a 
simple fool ! 

I can do better for thee. Mark me, 
Quentin. 

I took my license from the noble regiment, 

Partly that I was worn with age and war- 
fare, 

Partly that an estate of yeomanry, 

Of no great purchase, but enough to live 
on, 

Has call'd me owner since a kinsman's 
death. 

It lies in merry Yorkshire, where the wealth 

Of fold and furrow, proper to Old England, 

Stretches by streams which walk no slug- 
gish pace, 

But dance as light as yours. Now, gooa 
friend Quentin, 

This copyhold can keep two quiet inmates, 

And I am childless. Wilt thou be my son ? 
Que. Nay, you can only jest, my 
worthy friend ! 

What claim have I to be a burden to you? 
Ser. The claim of him that wants, and 
is in danger, 

On him that has, and can afford protection: 

Thou wouldst not fear a foeman in my 
cottage, 

Where a stout mastiff slumber' d on the 
hearth, 

And this good halberd hung above the 
chimney ? 

But come— I have it — thou shalt earn thy 
. bread 

Duly, and honourably, and usefully. 

Our village schoolmaster hath left the 
parish, 

Forsook the ancient school-house with its 
yew-trees, 

That lurk'd beside a church two centuries 
older, — 

So long devotion took the lead of know- 
ledge ; 



494 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And since his little flock are shepherdless, 
Tis thou shalt be promoted in his room ; 
And rather than thou wantest scholars, 

man, 
Myself will enter pupil. Better late, 
Our proverb says, than never to do well. 
And look you, on the holydays I'd tell, 
To all the wondering boors and gaping 

children, 
Strange tales of what 'the regiment did in 

Flanders, 
And thou shouldst say Amen, and be my 

warrant 
That I speak truth to them. 

Que. Would I might take thy offer ! 

But, alas ! 
Thou art the hermit who compell'd a pil- 
grim, 
In name of heaven and heavenly charity, 
To share his roof and meal, but found too 

late 
That he had drawn a curse on him and 

his, 
By sheltering a wretch foredoom' d of 

heaven ! 
Ser. Thou talk'st in riddles to me. 
Que. If I do, 

'Tis that I am a riddle to myself. 
Thou know'st I am by nature born a friend 
To glee and merriment ; can make wild 

verses ; 
The jest or laugh has never stopp'd with 

me, 
When once 'twas set a rolling. 

Ser. I have known thee 

A blithe companion still, and wonder now 
Thou shouldst become thus crest-fallen. 
Que. Does the lark sing her descant 

when the falcon 
Scales the blue vault with bolder wing than 

hers, 
And meditates a stoop? The mirth thou'st 

noted 
Was all deception, fraud — Hated enough 
For other causes, I did veil my feelings 
Beneath the. mask of mirth, — laugh'd, 

sung, and caroll'd, 
To gain some interest in my comrades' 

bosoms, 
Although mine own was bursting. 

Ser. Thou'rt a hypocrite 

Of a new order. 

Que. But harmless as the innoxious 

snake, 
Which bears the adder's form, lurks in his 

haunts, 



Yet neither hath his fang-teeth nor his 
m poison. 

Look you, kind Hildebrand, I would seem 
merry, 

Lest other men should, tiring of my sad- 
ness, 

Expel me from them, as the hunted wether 

Is driven from the flock. 
Ser. Faith, thou hast borne it bravely 
out. 

Had I been ask'd to name the merriest 
fellow 

Of all our muster-roll — that man vvert 
thou. 
Que. See'st thou, my friend, yon brook 
dance down the valley, 

And sing blithe carols over broken rock 

And tiny waterfall, kissing each shrub 

And each gay flower it nurses in its 
passage, — 

Where, thinkst thou, is its source, the 
bonny brook ? — 

It flows from forth a cavern, black and 
gloomy, 

Sullen and sunless, like this heart of mine, 

Which others see in a false glare of gaiety, 

Which I have laid before you in its sad- 
ness. 
Ser. If such wild fancies dog thee, 
wherefore leave 

The trade where thou wert safe 'midst 
others' dangers, 

And venture to thy native land, where fate 

Lies on the watch for thee? Had old 
Montgomery 

Been with the regiment, thou hadst had 
no conge. 
Que. No, 'tis most likely — But I had a 
hope, 

A poor vain hope, that I might live 
obscurely 

In some far corner of my native Scotland, 

Which, of all others, splinter'd into dis- 
tricts, 

Differing in manners, families, even lan- 
guage, 

Seem'd a safe refuge for the humble 
wretch 

Whose highest hope was to remain un- 
heard of. 

But fate has baffled me — the winds and 
waves, 

With force resistless, have impell'd me 
hither — 

Have driven me to the clime most dan- 
gerous to me ; 



AUCHINDRANE. 



495 



And I obey the call, like the hurt deer, 
Which seeks instinctively his native lair, 
Though his heart tells him it is but to die 

there. 
Ser. Tis false, by Heaven, young man ! 

This same despair, 
Though showing resignation in its banner, 
Is but a kind of covert cowardice. 
Wise men have said, that though our stars 

incline, 
They cannot force us — Wisdom is the 

pilot, 
And if he cannot cross, he may evade them. 
You lend an ear to idle auguries, 
The fruits of our last revels. — still most 

sad 
Under the gloom that follows boisterous 

mirth, 
As earth looks blackest after brilliant sun- 
shine. 
Que. No, by my honest word. I join'd 

the revel, 
Aud aided it with laugh, and song, and 

shout, 
But my heart revell'd not; and, when the 

mirth 
Was at the loudest, on yon galliot's prow 
I stood unmark'd, and gazed upon the 

land, 
My native land— each cape and cliff I 

knew. 
"Behold me now," I said 

victim ! " 
So greets the sentenced criminal the 

headsman, 
Who slow approaches with his lifted axe. 
"Hither I come," I said, "ye kindred 

hills, 
Whose darksome outline in a distant land 
Haunted my slumbers ; here I stand, thou 

ocean, 
Whose hoarse voice, murmuring in my 

dreams, required me ; 
See me now here, ye winds, whose plain- 
tive wail, 
Or. yonder distant shores, appear'd to call 

me- 
Summon'd, behold me." And the winds 

and waves, 
And the deep echoes of the distant moun- 
tain, 
Made answer — "Come, and die ! " 
Ser. Fantastic all ! Poor boy, thou art 

distracted 
With the vain terrors of some feudal 

tyrant, 



your destined 



Whose frown hath been from infancy thy 

bugbear. 
Why seek his presence? 

Que. Wherefore does the moth 

Fly to the scorching taper?— why the bird, 
Dazzled by lights at midnight, seek the 

net?— 
Why does the prey, which feels the 

fascination 
Of the snake's glaring eye, drop in his 

jaws ? 
Ser. Such wild examples but refute 

themselves. 
Let bird, let moth, let the coil'd adder's 

prey, 
Resist the fascination and be safe. 
Thou goest not near this Baron — if thou 

goest, 
I will go with thee. Known in many a 

field, 
Which he in a whole life of petty feud 
Has never dream'd of, I will teach the 

. knight 
To rule him in this matter — be thy warrant, 
That far from him, and from his petty 

lordship, 
You shall henceforth tread English land, 

and never 
Thy presence shall alarm his conscience 

more. 
Que. 'Twere desperate risk for both. I 

will far rather 
Hastily guide thee through this dangerous 

province, 
And seek thy school, thy yew-trees, and 

thy churchyard ; — 
The last, perchance, will be the first I find. 

Ser. I would rather face him, 
Like a bold Englishman that knows his 

right, 
And will stand by his friend. And yet 'tis 

folly - 
Fancies like these are not to be resisted ; 
'Tis better to escape them. Many a 

presage, 
Too rashly braved, becomes its own ac- 
complishment. 
Then let us go — But whither ? My old head 
As little knows where it shall lie to-night, 
As yonder mutineers that left their officer, 
As reckless of his quarters as these billows, 
That leave the wither'd sea-weed on the 

beach, 
And care not where they pile it. 

Que. Think not for that, good friend. 

We are in Scotland, 



And if it is not varied from its wont, 
Each cot, that sends a curl of smoke to 

heaven, 
Will yield a stranger quarters for the night, 
Simply because he needs them. 
Ser. But are there none within an easy 

walk 
Give lodgings here for hire ? for I have left 
Some of the Don's piastres, (though I kept 
The secret from yon gulls,) and I had 

rather 
Pay the fair reckoning I can well afford, 
And my host takes with pleasure, than I'd 

cumber 
Some poor man's roof with me and all my 

wants, 
And tax his charity beyond discretion. 
Que. Some six miles hence there is a 

town and hostelry. 
But you are wayworn, and it is most likely 
Our comrades must have fill'd it. 

Ser. Out upon them ! — 

Were there a friendly mastiff who would 

lend me 
Half of his supper, half of his poor kennel, 
I would help Honesty to pick his bones, 
And share his straw, far rather than I'd sup 
On jolly fare with these base varlets ! 
Que. We'll manage better; for our 

Scottish dogs, 
Tho' stout and trusty, are but ill-instructed 
In hospitable rights.— Here is a maiden, 
A little maid, will tell us of the country, 
And sorely it is changed since I left it, 
If we should fail to find a harbourage. 

Enter Isabel MacLellan, a girl of 
about six years old, bearing a milk-pail 
on her head ; she stops on seeing the 
Sergeant and Quentin. 

Que. There's something in her look 
that doth remind me— 
But 'tis not wonder I find recollections 

In all that here I look on. — Pretty maid 

Ser. You're slow, and hesitate. I will 
be spokesman. — 
Good even, my pretty maiden — canst thou 

tell us, 
Is there a Christian house would render 

strangers, 
For love or guerdon, a night's meal and 
lodging ? 
ISA. Full surely, sir; we dwell in yon 
old house 
Upon the cliff— they call it Chapeldonan. 
{Points to the building.) 



Our house is large enough, and if our 

supper 
Chance to be scant, you shall have half of 

mine, 
.for, as I think, sir, you have been a 

soldier. 
Up yonder lies our house ; I'll trip before, 
And tell my mother she has guests 

a-coming ; 
The path is something steep, but you shall 

see 
I'll be there first. I must chain up the 

dogs, too; 
Nimrod and Bloodylass are cross to 

strangers, 
But gentle when you know them. 

[Exit, and is seen partially ascend- 
ing to the Castle. 
Ser. You have spoke 

Your country folk aright, both for the 

dogs 
And for the people. We had luck to light 
On one too young for cunning and for 

selfishness. — 
He's in a reverie — a deep one sure, 
Since the gibe on his country wakes him 

not. — 
Bestir thee, Quentin ! 
Que. 'Twas a wondrous likeness ! 

Ser. Likeness ! of whom ? I'll warrant 

thee of one 
Whom thou hast loved and lost. Such 

fantasies 
Live long in brains like thine, which 

fashion visions 
Of woe and death when they are cross'd 

in love, 
As most men are or have been. 
Que. Thy guess has touch'd me, though 

it is but slightly, 
'Mongst other woes: I knew in former 

days, 
A maid that vievv'd me with some glance 

of favour ; 
But my fate carried me to other shores, 
And she has since been wedded. I did 

think on't 
But as a bubble burst, a rainbow vanish'd ; 
It adds no deeper shade to the dark gloom 
Which chills the springs of hope and life 

within me. 
Our guide hath got a trick of voice and 

feature 
Like to the maid I spoke of — that is all. 
Ser. She bounds before us like a game- 
some doe, 



AUCHINDRANE. 



497 



Or rather as the rock-bred eaglet soars 
Up to her nest, as if she rose by will 
Without an effort. Now a Netherlander, 
One of our Frogland friends, viewing the 

scene, 
Would take his oath that tower, and rock, 

and maiden, 
Were forms too light and lofty to be real, 
And only some delusion of the fancy, 
Such as men dream at sunset. I myself 
Have kept the level ground so many 

years, 
I have well-nigh forgot the art to climb, 
Unless assisted by the younger arm. 

[ They go off as if to ascend to the 
Tower, the SERGEANT leaning 
tipon Quentin. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the Front of the Old Tower. 
Isabel comes forward with her Mother, 
— Marion speaking as they adva?ice. 

Mar. I blame thee not, my child, for 

bidding wanderers 
Come share our food and shelter, if thy 

father 
Were here to welcome them ; but, Isabel, 
He waits upon his lord at Auchindrane, 
And comes not home to-night. 

ISA. What then, my mother? 

The travellers do not ask to see my father ; 
Food, shelter, rest, is all the poor men 

want, 
And we can give them these without my 

father. 
Mar. Thou canst not understand, nor 

I explain, 
Why a lone female asks not visitants 
Whattimeherhusband'sabsent. — [Apart.) 

My poor child, 
Andif thou 'rt wedded toajealous husband, 
Thou 'It know too soon the cause. 

ISA. [partly overhearing what her mother 

says) — 
Ay, but I know already — Jealousy 
Is, when my father chides, and you sit 

weeping. 
Mar. Out, little spy! thy father never 

chides ; 
Or, if he does, 'tis when his wife deserves 

it.— 
But to our strangers ; they are old men, 

Isabel, 
That seek this shelter? are they not? 
ISA. One is old- 



Old as this tower of ours, and worn like 

that, 
Bearing deep marks of battles long since 
fought. 
Mar. Some remnant of the wars ; he's 
welcome, surely, 
Bringing no quality along with him 
Which can alarm suspicion. — Well, the 
other? 
ISA. A young man, gentle-voiced and 
gentle-eyed, 
Who looks and speaks like one the world 

has frown' d on; 
But smiles when you smile, seeming that 

he feels 
Joy in your joy, though he himself is sad. 
Brown hair, and downcast looks. 
Mar. [alarmed). 'Tis but an idle 
thought — it cannot be ! 
[Listens.) I hear his accents — It is all too 

true — 
My terrors were prophetic! I'll com- 
pose myself, 
And then accost him firmly. Thus it 
must be. 

[She retires hastily into the Tower. 

— The voices of the Sergeant 

and Quenttn are heard ascetid- 

ing behind the Scenes. 

Que. One effort more — we stand upon 

the level. 

I've seen thee work thee up glacis and 

cavalier 
Steeper than this ascent, when cannon, 

culverine, 
Musket, and hackbut, shower'd their shot 

upon thee, 
And form'd, with ceaseless blaze, a fiery 

garland 
Round the defences of the post you storm 'd. 
[They come on the stage, and at the 
same timeMARiOH re-enters from 
the Tower. 
Ser. Truly thou speak'st. I am the 
tardier, 
That I, in climbing hither, miss the fire, 
Which wont to tell me there was death in 

loitering. — 
Here stands, methinks, our hostess. 

[He goes forward to address MA- 
RION. Quentin, struck on see- 
i?ig her, keeps back. 
Ser. Kind Dame, yon little lass hath 
brought you strangers, 
Willing to be a trouble, not a charge to you, 
We are disbanded soldiers, but have means 

32 



498 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Ample enough to pay our journey home- 
ward. 
-MAR, We keep no house of general 
entertainment, 

But know our duty, sir, to locks like yours, 

Whiten'd and thinn'd by many a long cam- 
paign. 

Ill chances that my husband should be 
absent — 

{Apart.) — Courage alone can make me 
struggle through it — 

For in your comrade, though he hath for- 
got me, 

I spy a friend whom I have known in 
school-days, 

And whom I think MacLellan well re- 
members. — 

(She goes up to Quentin.) You see a 
woman's memory 

Isfaithfuller than yours ; for Quentin Blane 

Hath not a greeting left for Marion Hark- 
ness. 
Que. (with effort). I seek, indeed, my 
native land, good Marion, 

But seek it like a stranger. — All is changed, 

And thou thyself— 

Mar. You left a giddy maiden, 

And find, on your return, a wife and 
mother. 

Thine old acquaintance, Quentin, is my 
mate — 

Stout Niel MacLellan, ranger to our lord, 

The Knight of Auchindrane. He's absent 
now, 

But will rejoice to see his former comrade, 

If, as I trust, you tarry his return. 

(Apart.) Heaven grant he understand my 
words by contraries ! 

He must remember Niel and he were rivals ; 

He must remember Niel and he were foes ; 

He must remember Niel is warm of temper, 

And think, instead of welcome, I would 
blithely 

Bid him, God speed you. But he is as 
simple 

And void of guile as ever. 

Que. Marion, I gladly rest within your 
cottage, 

And gladly wait return of Niel MacLellan, 

To clasp his hand, and wish him happiness. 

Some rising feelings might perhaps prevent 
this— 

But 'tis a peevish part to grudge our friends 

Their share of fortune because we have 
miss'd it : 

I can wish others joy and happiness, 



Though I must ne'er partake them. 

Mar. But if it grieve you 

Que. No ! do not fear. The brightest 
gleams of hope 
That shine on me are such as are reflected 
From those which shine on others. 

[The Sergeant and Quentin 

enter the Tower with the little 

Girl. 

MAR. (comes forward, and speaks in 

agitation) — 

Even so ! the simple youth has miss'd my 

meaning : 
I shame to make it plainer, or to say, 
In one brief word, Pass on. — Heaven guide 

the bark, 
For we are on the breakers ! 

[Exit into the Tower. 

ACT II.— Scene I. 

A Withdrawing Apartment in the Castle 
of Auchindrane. Servants place a 
Table, with a Flask of Wine and 
Drinking-Cups. 

Enter Mure of Auchindrane, with 
Albert Gifford, his Relation atid 
Visitor. They place themselves by the 
Table after some complimentary cere- 
mony. At some distance is heard the 
noise of revelling. 

Auch. We're better placed for con- 
fidential talk, 
Than in the hall fill'd with disbanded 

soldiers, 
And fools and fiddlers gather'd on the 

highway, — 
The worthy guests whom Philip crowds 

my hall with, 
And with them spends his evening. 

GlF. But think you not, my friend, that 
your son Philip 
Should be participant of these our counsels, 
Being so deeply mingled in the danger — 
Your house's only heir — your only son ? 
Auch. Kind cousin Gifford, if thov 
lack'st good counsel 
At race, at cockpit, or at. gambling tabb 
Or any freak by which men cheat them- 
selves 
As well of life as of the means to live, 
Call for assistance upon Philip Mure ; 
But in all serious parley spare invoking him. 
Gif. You speak too lightly of my cousin 
Philip ; 



AUCHINDRANE. 



499 



All name him brave in arms. 

Auch. A second Bevis ; 

But I, my youth bred up in graver fashions, 
Mourn o'er the mode of life in which he 

spends, 
Or rather dissipates, his time and substance. 
No vagabond escapes his search — The 

soldier 
Spurn'd from the service, henceforth to be 

ruffian 
Upon his own account, is Philip's comrade ; 
The fiddler, whose crack'd crowd has still 

three strings on't ; 
The balladeer, whose voice has still two 

notes left ; 
Whate'er is roguish, and whate'er is vile, 
Are welcome to the board of Auchindrane, 
And Philip will return them shout for shout, 
And pledge for jovial pledge, and song for 

song, 
Until the shame-faced sun peep at our 

windows, 
And ask, " What have we here?" 
Gif. You take such revel deeply; — we 

are Scotsmen, 
Far known for rustic hospitality, 
That mind not birth or titles in our guests : 
The harper has his seat beside our hearth, 
The wanderer must find comfort at our 

board, 
His name unask'd, his pedigree unknown ; 
So did our ancestors, and so must we. 
Auch. All this is freely granted/ worthy 

kinsman ; 
And prithee do not think me churl enough 
To count how many sit beneath my salt. 
I've wealth enough to fill my father's hall 
Each day at noon, and feed the guests who 

crowd it : 
I am near mate with those whom men call 

Lord, 
Though a rude western knight. But mark 

me, cousin, 
Although I feed wayfaring vagabonds, 
I make them not my comrades. Such as I, 
Who have advanced the fortunes of my 

line, 
And swell'd a baron's turret to a palace, 
Have oft the curse awaiting on our thrift, 
To see, while yet we live, the things which 

must be 
At our decease— the downfall of our family, 
The loss of land and lordship, name and 

knighthood, 
The wreck of the fair fabric we have built, 
By a degenerate heir. Philip has that 



Of inborn- meanness in him, that he loves 
not 

The company of betters nor of equals ; 

Never at ease, unless he bears the bell. 

And crows the loudest in the company. 

He's mesh'd, too, in the snares of every 
female . 

Who deigns to cast a passing glance on 
him — 

Licentious, disrespectful, rash, and pro- 
fligate. 
Gif. Come, my good coz, think we too 
have been young. 

And I will swear that in your father's life- 
time 

You have yourself been trapp'd by toys 
like these. 
Auch. A fool I may have been — but 
not a madman ; 

I never play'd the rake among my fol- 
lowers, 

Pursuing this man's sister, that man's wife; 

And therefore never saw I man of mine, 

When summon'd to obey my hest, grow 
restive, 

Talk of his honour, of his peace destroy'd, 

And, while obeying, mutter threats of 
vengeance. 

But now the humour of an idle youth, 

Disgusting trusted followers, sworn de- 
pendents, 

Plays football with his honour and my 
safety. 
Gif. I'm sorry to find discord in your 
house, 

For I had hoped, while bringing you cold 
news, 

To find you arm'd in union 'gainst the 
danger. 
Auch. What can man speak that I 
would shrink to hear, 

And where the danger I would deign to 
shun? [He rises.) 

What should appal a man inured to perils, 

Like the bold climber on the crags of Ailsa? 

Winds whistle past him, billows rage be- 
low, 

The sea-fowl sweep around, with shriek 
and clang, 

One single slip, one unadvised pace, 

One qualm of giddiness— and peace be 
with him ! 

But he whose grasp is sure, whose step is 
firm, 

Whose brain is constant— he makes one 
proud rock 



5oo 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The means to scale another, till he stand 
Triumphant on the peak. 

Gif. And so I trust 

Thou wilt surmount the danger now ap- 
proaching, 
Which scarcely can I frame my tongue to 

tell you, • 

Though I rode here on purpose. 
Auch. Cousin, I think thy heart was 

never coward, 
And strange it seems thy tongue should 

take such semblance. 
I've heard of many a loud-mouth'd, noisy 

braggart, 
Whose hand gave feeble sanction to his 

tongue ; 
But thou art one whose heart can think 

bold things, 
Whose hand can act them — but who 

shrinks to speak them ! 
Gif. And if I speak them not, 'tis that 

I shame 
To tell thee of the calumnies that load thee. 
Things loudly spoken at the city Cross — 
Things closely whisper'd in our Sovereign's 

ear — 
Things which the plumed lord and fiat- 

capp'd citizen 
Do circulate amid their different ranks — 
Things false, no doubt ; but, falsehoods 

while I deem them, 
Still honouring thee, I shun the odious 

topic. 
Auch. Shun it not, cousin; 'tis a friend's 

best office 
To bring the news we hear unwillingly. 
The sentinel, who tells the foe's approach, 
And wakes the sleeping camp, does but 

his duty : 
Be thou as bold in telling me of danger, 
As I shall be in facing danger told of. 
Gif. I need not bid thee recollect the 

death-feud 
That raged so long betwixt thy house and 

Cassilis ; 
I need not bid thee recollect the league, 
When royal James himself stood mediator 
Between thee and Earl Gilbert. 
Auch. Call you these news? — You 

might as well have told me * 

That old King Coil is dead, 'and graved at 

Kylesfeld. 
I'll help thee out — King James com- 
manded us 
Henceforth to live in peace, made us clasp 

hands too. 



O, sir, when such an union hath been made, 
In heart and hand conjoining mortal foes, 
Under a monarch's royal mediation, 
The league is not forgotten. And with this 
What is there to be told? The King 

commanded — 
"Be friends." No doubt we were so— 

Who dares doubt it? 
Gif. You speak but half the tale. 
Auch. By good Saint Trimon, but I'll 

tell the whole ! 
There is no terror in the tale for me — 
Go speak of ghosts to children ! — This 

Earl Gilbert 
(God sain him) loved Heaven's peace as 

well as I did, 
And we were wondrous friends whene'er 

we met 
At church or market, or in burrows town. 
Midst this, our good Lord Gilbert, Earl of 

Cassilis, 
Takes purpose he would journey forth to 

Edinburgh. 
The King was doling gifts of abbey-lands, 
Good things that thrifty house was wont to 

fish for. 
Our mighty Earl forsakes his sea-wash' d 

castle, 
Passes our borders some four miles from 

hence ; 
And, holding it unwholesome to be fasters 
Long after sunrise, lo ! the Earl and train 
Dismount, to rest their nags and eat their 

breakfast. 
The morning rose, the small birds caroll'd 

sweetly — 
The corks were drawn, the pasty brooks 

incision— 
His lordship jests, his train are choked 

with laughter ; 
When, — wondrous change of cheer, and 

most unlook'd for, 
Strange epilogue to bottle and to baked 

meat ! — 
Flash' d from the greenwood half a score of 

carabines ; 
And the- good Earl of Cassilis, in his 

breakfast, 
Had nooning, dinner, supper, all at once, 
Even in the morning that he closed his 

journey ; 
And the grim sexton, for his chamberlain, 
Made him the bed which rests the head for 

ever. 
Gif. Told with much spirit, cousin — 

some there are 



AUCHINDRANE. 



501 



f 



Would add, and in a tone resembling 

triumph, 
And would that with these longestablish'd 

facts 
My tale began and ended ! I must tell you, 
That evil-deeming censures of the events, 
Both at the time and now, throw blame 

on thee — 
Time, place, and circumstance, they say, 

proclaim thee, 
Alike, the author of that morning's ambush. 
Auch. Ay, 'tis an old belief in Carrick 

here, 
Where natives do not always die in bed, 
That if a Kennedy shall not attain 
Methuselah's last span, a Mure has slain 

him : 
Such is the general creed of all their clan. 
Thank Heaven, that they are bound to 

prove the charge 
They are so prompt in making. They 

have clamour'd 
Enough of this before, to show their malice. 
But what said these coward pickthanks 

when I came 
Before the King, before the Justicers, 
Rebutting all their calumnies, and daring 

them 
To show that I knew aught of Cassilis' 

journey — 
Which way he meant to travel— where to 

halt- 
Without which knowledge I possess'd no 

means 
To dress an ambush for him ? Did I not 
Defy the assembled clan of Kennedys, 
To show, by proof direct or inferential, 
Wherefore they slander'd me with this 

foul charge ! 
My gauntlet rung before them in the court, 
And I did dare the best of them to lift it, 
And prove such charge a true one — Did I 

not? 
Gif. I saw your gauntlet lie before the 

Kennedys, 
Who look'd on it as men do on an adder, 
Longing to crush, and yet afraid to grasp it. 
Not an eye sparkled — not a foot ad- 
vanced — 
No arm was stretch'd to lift the fatal sym- 
bol. 
AUCH. Then, wherefore do the hildings 

murmur now? 
Wish they to see again, how one bold 

Mure 
Can baffle and defy their assembled valour? 



Gif. No ; but they speak of evidence 

suppress'd. 
Auch. Suppress'd! — what evidence? — 
by whom suppress'd? 

What Will-o'-Wisp — what idiot of a wit- 
ness, 

Is he to whom they trace an empty voice, 

But cannot show his person? 
Gif. They pretend, 

With the King's leave, to bring it to a trial ; 

Averring that a lad, named Quentin Blane, 

Brought thee a letter from the murder'd 
Earl, 

With friendly greetings, telling of his 
journey, 

The hour which he set forth, the place he 
halted at, — 

Affording thee the means to/orm the am- 
bush, 

Of which your hatred made the application. 
Auch. A prudent Earl, indeed, if such 
his practice, 

When dealing with a recent enemy ! 

And what should he propose by such 
strange confidence 

In one who sought it not ? 
Gif. His purposes were kindly, say the 
Kennedys — 

Desiring you would meet him where he 
halted, 

Offering to undertake whate'er commis- 
sions 

You listed trust him with, for court or city : 

And, thus apprised of Cassilis' purposed 
journey, 

And of his halting-place, you placed the 
ambush, 

Prepared the homicides 

Auch. They're free to say their pleasure. 
They are men 

Of th|> new court — and I am but a frag- 
ment 

Of stout old Morton's faction. It is reason 

That such as I be rooted from the earth, 

That they may have full room to spread 
their branches. 

No doubt, 'tis easy to find strolling 
vagrants 

To prove whate'er they prompt. This 
Quentin Blane — 

Did you not call him so ? — why comes he 
now? 

And wherefore not before ? This must be 
answer' d — 

{Abruptly) — Where is he now? 
Gif. Abroad — they say — kidnapp'd, 



502 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



By you kidnapp'd, that he might die in 

Flanders. 
But orders have been sent for his'discharge, 
And his transmission hither. 

Auch. {assuming an air of com- 
posure) — 
When they produce such witness, cousin 

Gifford, 
We'll be prepared to meet it. In the 

mean while, 
The King doth ill to throw his royal 

sceptre 
In the accuser's scale, ere he can know 
How justice shall incline it. 

Gif. Our sage prince 

Resents, it may be, less the death of 

Cassilis, 
Than he is angry that the feud 'should 

burn, 
After his royal voice had said, "Be 

quench'd:" 
Thus urging prosecution less for slaughter, 
Than that, being done against the King's 

command, 
Treason is mix'd with homicide. 

Auch. Ha ! ha ! most true, my cousin. 
Why, well consider'd, 'tis a crime so great 
To slay one's enemy, the King forbidding 

it, 
Like parricide, it should be held impos- 
sible. 
"¥is just as if a wretch retain'd the evil, ' 
When the King's touch had bid the sores 

be heal'd ; 
And such a crime merits the stake at least. 
What ! can there be within a Scottish 

bosom 
A feud so deadly, that it kept its ground 
When the King said, Be friends ! It is 

not credible. 
Were I King James, 1 never would be- 
lieve it : 
I'd rather think the story all a dream, 
And that there was no friendship, feud, 

nor journey, 
No halt, no ambush, and no Earl of 

Cassilis, 
Than dream anointed Majesty has 

wrong ! — 
Gif. Speak within door, coz. 
Auch. O, true.— {Aside)— I shall 

betray myself 
Even to this half-bred fool. — I must have 

room, 
Room for an instant, or I suffocate. — 
Cousin, I prithee call our Philip hither— 



Forgive me; 'twere more meet I sum- 

mon'd him 
Myself; but then the sight of yonder revel 
Would chafe my blood, and I have need 

of coolness. 
Gif. I understand thee — I will bring 

him straight. {Exit, 

Auch. And if thou dost, he's lost his 

ancient trick 
To fathom, as he wont, his five-pint 

flagons. — 
This space is mine— O for the power to 

fill it, 
Instead of senseless rage and empty curses, 
With the dark spell which witches learn 

from fiends, 
That smites the object of their hate afar, 
Nor leaves a token of its mystic action, 
Stealing the soui from out the unscathed 

body, 
As lightning melts the blade, nor harms 

the scabbard ! 
— 'Tis vain to wish for it— Each curse of 

mine 
Falls to the ground as harmless as the 

arrows 
Which children shoot at stars ! The time 

for thought, 
If , thought could aught avail me, melts 

away, 
Like to a snowball in a schoolboy's hand, 
That melts the faster the more 'close he 

grasps it ! — 
If I had time, this Scottish Solomon, 
Whom some call son of David the 

Musician, 
Might find it perilous work to march to 

Carrick. 
There's many a feud still slumbering in its 

ashes, 
Whose embers are yet red. Nobles we 

have, 
Stout as old Graysteel, and as hot as 

Bothwell ; 
Here too are castles look from crags as high 
On seas as wide as Logan's. So the 

King- 
Pshaw ! He is here again — 

Enter Gifford. 
Gif. I rieard you name 

The King, my kinsman ; know, he comes 
not hither. 
Auch. {affecting indifference). Nay, then 
we need not broach our barrels, 
cousin, 






AUCHINDRANE. 



503 



Nor purchase us new jerkins. — Comes not 

Philip ? 
Gif. Yes, sir. He tarries but to drink 

a service 
To his good friends at parting. 
Auch. Friends for the beadle or the 

sheriff-officer. 
Well, let it pass. Who conies, and how 

attended, 
Since James designs not westward ? 

Gif. O you shall have, instead, his fiery 

functionaiy, 
George Home that was, but now Dunbar's 

great Earl ; 
He leads a royal host, and comes to show 

you 
How he distributes justice on the Border, 
Where judge and hangman oft reverse 

their office, 
And the noose does its work before the 

sentence. 
But I have said my tidings best and worst. 
None but yourself can know what course 

the time 
And peril may demand. ,To lift your 

banner, 
If I might be a judge, were desperate 

game: 
Ireland and Galloway offer you con- 
venience 
For flight, if flight be thought the better 

remedy ; 
To face the court requires the conscious- 
ness 
And confidence of innocence. You alone 
Can judge if you possess these attributes. 

(A ?wise behind the scenes.) 
Auch. Philip, I think, has broken up 

his revels ; 
His ragged regiment are dispersing them, 
Well liquor'd, doubtless. They're dis- 
banded soldiers, 
Or some such vagabonds. — Here comes 

the gallant. 

Enter Philip. He has a buff-coat and 
head-piece, wears a sword and dagger, 
with pistols at his girdle. He appears 
to be affected by liquor, bzit to be by no 
means intoxicated. 

Auch. You scarce have been made 
known to one another, 
Although you sate together at the board. — 
Son Philip, know and prize our cousin 
Gifford, 
Phi. [tastes the wine on the table) — 



If you had prized him, sir, you had been 

loth 
To have welcomed him in bastard Alicant. 
I'll make amends, by pledging his good 

journey 
In glorious Burgundy. — The stirrup-cup, 

ho ! 
And bring my cousin's horses to the court. 

AUCH. {draws him aside) — 
The stirrup-cup ! He doth not ride to- 
night — 
Shame on such churlish conduct to a 

kinsman ! 
Phi. {aside to his father). I've news of 

pressing import. 
Send the fool off.— Slay, I will start him 

for you. 
{To Gif.) Yes, my kind cousin, Burgundy 

is better, 
On a night-ride, to those who thread our 

moors, 
And we may deal it freely to our friends, 1 
For we came freely by it. Yonder ocean 
Rolls many a purple cask upon our shore, 
Rough with embossed shells and shagged 

sea-weed, 
When the good skipper and his careful 

crew 
Have had their latest earthly draught of 

brine, 
And gone to quench, or to endure their 

thirst, 
Where nectar's plenty, or even water's 

scarce, 
And filter' d to the parched crew by drops- 
full. 
Auch. Thou'rt mad, son Philip ! Gif- 

ford's no intruder, 
That we should rid him hence by such 

wild rants : 
My kinsman hither rode at his own danger, 
To tell us that Dunbar is hasting to us, 
With a strong force, and with the King's 

commission, 
To enforce against our house a hateful 

charge, 
With every measure of extremity. 

Phi. And is this all that our good 

cousin tells us ? 
I can say more, thanks to the ragged 

regiment, 
With whose good company you have up- 
braided me, 
On whose authority, I tell thee, cousin, 
Dunbar is here already. 
Gif. Already? 



504 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Phi. Yes, gentle coz. And you, my 

sire, be hasty 
In what you think to do. 
Auch. I think thou darest not jest on 

such a subject. 
Where hadst thou these fell tidings? 
Phi. Where you, too, might have heard 

them, noble father, 
Save that your ears, nail'd to our kins- 
man's lips, 
Would list no coarser accents. O, my 

soldiers, 
My merry crew of vagabonds, for ever ! 
Scum of the Netherlands, and wash'd 

ashore 
Upon this coast like unregarded sea-weed, 
They had not been two hours on Scottish 

land, 
When, lo ! they met a military friend, 
An ancient fourier, known to them of old, 
Who, warm'd by certain stoups of search- 
ing wine, 
Inform'd his old companions that Dunbar 
Left Glasgow yesterday, comes here to- 
morrow ; 
Himself, he said, was sent a spy before, 
To view what preparations we were 

making. 
Auch. {to Gif.) If this be sooth, good 

kinsman, thou must claim 
To take a part with us for life and death, 
Or speed from hence, and leave us to our 

fortune. 
Gif. In such dilemma, 
Believe me, friend, I'd cho »se upon the 

instant — 
But I lack harness, and a steed to charge 

on, 
For mine is overtired, and, save my page, 
There's not a man to back me. But I'll hie 
To Kyle, and raise my vassals to your aid. 

Phi. 'Twill be when the rats, 
That on these tidings fly this house of 

ours, 
Come back to pay their rents. — {Apart.) 

Auch. Courage, cousin ! — 

Thou goest not hence ill mounted for thy 

need: 
Full forty coursers feed in my wide stalls— 
The best of them is yours to speed your 

journey. 
Phi. Stand not on ceremony, good our 

cousin, 
When safety signs, to shorten courtesy. 
Gif. {to Auch.) Farewell, then, cousin, 

for my tarrying here 



Were ruin to myself, small aid to you ; 
Yet loving well your name and family, 
I'd fain — 

Phi. Be gone ?— that is our object, too — 
Kinsman, adieu. 

[Exit Gifford. Philip ca lis after 
him. 

You yeoman of the stable, 
Give Master Gifford there my fleetest steed, 
Yon cut-tail'd roan that trembles at a 
spear. — 

( Trampling of the horse heard going 

off) 
Hark ! he departs. How swift the dastard 

rides, 
To shun the neighbourhood of jeopardy ! 
{He lays aside the appearance oj 
levity which he has hitherto worn, 
and says very seriously) — 

And, now, my father — 
Auch. And now, my son — thou'st ta'en 
a perilous game 
Into thine hands, rejecting elder counsel,— 
How dost thou mean to play it ? 

Phi. Sir, good gamesters play not 
Till they review the cards which fate has 

dealt them, 
Computing thus the chances of the game ; 
And woefully they seem to weigh against 
us. 
Auch. Exile's a passing ill, and may be 
borne ; 
And when Dunbar, and all his myrmidons 
Are eastward turn'd, we'll seize our own 
* again. 

Phi. Would that were all the risk we 
had to stand to ! 
But more and worse, — a doom of treason, 

forfeiture, 
■Death to ourselves, dishonour to our house, 
Is what the stern Justiciary menaces ; 
And, fatally for us, he hath the means 
To make his threatenings good. 
Auch. It cannot be. I tell thee, there's 
no force 
In Scottish law to raze a house like mine, 
Coeval with the time the Lords of Gal- 
loway 
Submitted them unto the Scottish sceptre, 
Renouncing rights of Tanistry and Brehon. 
Some dreams they have of evidence — 

some suspicion ; 
But old Montgomery knows my purpose 

well, 
And long before their mandate reach the 
camp 



AUCHINDRANE. 



505 



To crave the presence of this mighty wit- 
ness, 

He will be fitted with an answer to it. 
Phi. Father, what we call great, is often 
ruin'd 

By means so ludicrously disproportion^, 

They make me think upon the gunner's 
linstock, 

Which, yielding forth a light about the 
size 

And semblance of the glowworm, yet 
applied 

To powder, blew a palace into atoms, 

Sent a young King— a young Queen's 
mate at' least — 

Into the air, as high as e'er flew night- 
hawk, 

And made such wild work in the realm of 
Scotland, 

As they can tell who heard, — and you 
were one 

Who saw, perhaps, the night-flight which 
began it. 
Auch. Jf thou hast nought to speak 
but drunken folly, 

I cannot listen longer. 
Phi. I will speak brief and sudden. — 
There is one 

Whose tongue to us has the same perilous 
force 

Which Bothwell's powder had to Kirk of 
Field ; 

One whose least tones, and those but pea- 
sant accents, 

Could rend the roof off our fathers' castle, 

Level its tallest turret with its base ; 

And he that doth possess this wondrous 
power 

Sleeps this same night not five miles dis- 
tant from us. 
Auch. {who had looked on Philip 
with much appearance of astonish- 
ment and doubt, exc/aims)-^- 

Then thou art mad indeed! Ha! ha! 
I'm glad on't. 

I'd purchase an escape from what I dread, 

Even by the frenzy of my only son ! 

Phi. I thank you, but agree not to the 
bargain. 

You rest on what yon civet cat has said : 

Yon silken doublet, stuff d with rotten 
straw, 

Told you but half the truth, and knew no 
more. 

But my good vagrants had a perfect 
tale : 



They told me, little judging the import- 
ance, 

That Quentin Bl^ie had been discharged 
with them. 

They told me, that a quarrel happ'd at 
landing, 

And that the youngster and an ancient 
sergeant 

Had left their company, and taken refuge 

In Chapeldonan, where our ranger dwells ; 

They saw him scale the cliff on which it 
stands, 

Ere they were out of sight ; the old man 
with him. 

And therefore laugh no more at me as 
mad ; 

But laugh, if thou hast list for merriment, 

To think he stands on the same land with 
us, 

Whose absence thou wouldst deem were 
cheaply purchased 

With thy soul's ransom and thy body's 
danger. 
Auch. 'Tis then a fatal truth ! Thou 
art no yelper 

To open rashly on so wild a scent ; 

Thou'rt the young bloodhound, which 
careers and springs, 

Frolics and fawns, as if the friend of man, 

But seizes on his victim like a tiger. 
Phi. No matter what I am — I'm as you 
bred me ; 

So let that pass till there be time to mend 
me, 

And let us speak like men, and to the 
purpose. 

This object of our fear and of our dread, 

Since such our pride must own him, sleeps 
to-night 

Within our power: — to-morrow in Dun- 
bar's, 

And we are then his victims. 
Auch. He is in ours to-night. 
Phi. He is. Ill answer that Magel- 
lan's trusty. 
Auch. Yet he replied to you to-day full 

rudely. 
Phi. Yes! the poor knave has got a 
handsome wife, 

And is gone mad with jealousy. 
Auch. Fool! — when we need the ut- 
most faith, allegiance, 

Obedience, and attachment in our vassals, 

Thy wild intrigues pour gall into their 
hearts, 

And turn their love to hatred! 



506 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Phi. Most reverend sire, you talk of 
ancient morals, 
Preach'd on by Knox, and practised by 

Glencairn ; 
Respectable, indeed, but somewhat musty 
In these our modern nostrils. In our days 
If a young baron chance to leave his vassal 
The sole possessor of a handsome wife, 
'Tis sign he loves his follower ; and if not, 
He loves his follower's wife, which often 

proves 
The surer bond of patronage. Take either 

case 
Favour flows in of course, and vassals rise. 

Auch. Philip, this is infamous, 
And, what is worse, impolitic. Take ex- 
ample : 
Break not God's laws or man's for each 

temptation 
That youth and blood suggest. I am a 

man — 
A weak and erring man ; — full well thou 

know'st 
That I may hardly term myself a pattern 
Even to my son ; yet thus far will I say, 
I never swerved from my integrity, 
Save at the voice of strong necessity, 
Or such o'erpowering view of high ad- 
vantage 
. As wise men liken to necessity, 
In strength and force compulsive. No 

one saw me 
Exchange my reputation for my pleasure, 
Or do the Devil's work without his wages. 
I practised prudence, and paid tax to vir- 
tue, 
By followingher behests, save where strong 

reason 
Compell'd a deviation. Then, if preachers 
At times look'd sour, or elders shook their 

heads, 
They could not term my walk irregular ; 
For I stood up still for the worthier cause, 
A pillar, though a flaw'd one, of the altar, 
Kept a strict walk, and led three hundred 
horse. 
Phi. Ah, these three hundred horse in 
such rough times 
Were better commendation to'a'party 
Than all your efforts at hypocrisy, 
Betray'd so oft by avarice and ambition, 
And dragg'd to open shame. But, right- 
eous father, 
When sire and son unite in mutual crime, 
And join their efforts to the same enormity, 
It is no time to measure others' faults, 



Or fix the amount of each. Most moral 

father, 
Think if it be a moment now to weigh 
The vices of the Heir of Auchindrane, 
Or take precaution that the ancient house 
Shall have another heir than the sly cour- 
tier 
That's gaping for the forfeiture. 

Auch. We'll disappoint him, Philip,— 
We'll disappoint him yet. It is a folly, 
A wilful cheat, to cast our eyes behind, 
When time, and the fast flitting oppor- 
tunity, 
Call loudly — nay, compel us .to look for- 
ward : 
Why are we not already at MacLellan's, 
Since there the victim sleeps? 

Phi. Nay, soft, I pray thee. 

I had not made your piety my confessor, 
Nor enter'd in debate on these sage coun- 
sels, % 
Which you're more like to give than I to 

profit by, 
Could I have used the time more use- 
fully ; 
But first an interval must pass between 
The fate of Quentin and the little artifice 
That shall detach him from his comrade, 
The stout old soldier that I told you of. 
Auch. How work a point so difficult — 

so dangerous? 
Phi. 'Tis cared for. Mark, my father, 
the convenience 
Arising from mean company. My agents 
Are at my hand, like a good workman's 

tools, 
And if I mean a mischief, ten to one 
That they anticipate the deed and guilt. 
Well knowing this, when first the vagrants' 

tattle 
Gave me the hint that Quentin was so 

near us, 
Instant I sent MacLellan, with strong 

charges 
To stop him for the night, and bring me 

word, 
Like an accomplish'd spy, how all things 

stood, 
Lulling the enemy into security. 
Auch. There was a prudent general ! 
Phi. MacLellan went and came within 
the hour. 
The jealous bee, which buzzes in his night- 
cap, 
Had humm'd to him, this fellow, Quentin 
Blane, 



AUCHINDRANE. 



50? 



Had been in schoolboy days an humble 

lover 
Of his own pretty wife — 

Auch. Most fortunate ! 

The knave will be more prompt to serve 

our purpose. 
Phi. No doubt on't. 'Mid the tidings 

he brought back, 
Was one of some importance. The old 

man 
Is flush of dollars; this I caused him tell 
Among his comrades, who became as 

eager 
To have him in their company, as e'er 
They had been wild to part with him. 

And in brief space, 
A letter's framed by an old hand amongst 

them, 
Familiar with such feats. It bore the 

name 
And character of old Montgomery, 
Whom he might well suppose at no great 

distance, 
Commanding his old Sergeant Hildebrand, 
By all the tics of late authority, 
Conjuring him by ancient soldiership, 
To hasten to his mansion instantly, 
On business of high import, with a charge 

To come alone 

Auch. Well, he sets out, I doubt it not : 

what follows? 
Phi. I am not curious into others' prac- 
tices, — 
So far I'm an economist in guilt, 
As you, my sire, advise. But on the road 
To old Montgomery's he meets his com- 
rades ; 
They nourish grudge against him and his 

dollars, 
And things may hap, which counsel, 

learn'd in law, 
Call Robbery and Murder. Should he live, 
He has seen nought that we would hide 

from him. 
Auch. Who carries the forged letter to 

the veteran? 
Phi. Why, Niel MacLellan, who re- 
turn 'd again 
To his own tower, as if to pass the night 

there. 
They pass'd on him, or tried to pass, a 

story, 
As if they wish'd the sergeant's company, 
Without the young comptroller's — that is, 

Quentin's, 
And he became an agent of their plot, 



That he might better carry on our own. 
Auch. There's life in it — yes, there is 

life in't ; 
And we will have a mounted party ready 
To scour the moors in quest of the banditti 
That kill'd the poor old man — they shall 

die instantly. 
Dunbar shall see us use sharp justice here, 
As well as he in Teviotdale. You are sure 
You gave no hint nor impulse to their 

purpose? 
Phi. It needed not. The whole pack 

oped at once 
Upon the scent of dollars. — But time comes 
When I must seek the tower, and act with 

Niel 
What farther's to be done. 

Auch. Alone with him thou goest not. 

He bears grudge — 
Thou art my only son, and on a night 
When such wild passions are so free 

abroad, 
When such wild deeds are doing, 'tis but 

natural 
I guarantee thy safety. — I'll ride with thee. 
Phi. E'en as you will, my lord. But — 

pardon me — 
If you will come, let us not have a word 
Of conscience, and of pity, and forgiveness; 
Fine words to-morrow, out of place to- 
night. 
Take counsel, then— leave all this work to 

me; 
Call up your household, make fit prepara- 
tion, 
In love and peace, to welcome this Earl 

Justiciar, 
As one that's, free ot guilt. Go, deck the 

castle 
As for an honour'd guest. Hallow the 

chapel 
(If they have power to hallow it) with thy 

prayers. 
Let me ride forth alone, and ere the sun 
Comes o'er the eastern hill, thou shalt 

accost him : 
* ' Now do thy worst, thou oft -returning spy, 
Here's nought thou canst discover." 
Auch. Yet goest thou not alone with 

that MacLellan! 
He deems thou bearest will to injure him, 
And seek'st occasion suiting to such will. 
Philip, thou art irreverent, fierce, ill- 
nurtured, 
Stain'd with low vices, which disgust a 

father ; 



5o8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Yet ridest thou not alone with yonder 

man, — 
Come weal, come woe, myself will go with 

thee. 
[Exit, and calls to horse behind the scene. 
Phi. {alone). Now would I give my 

fleetest horse to know 
What sudden thought roused this paternal 

care, 
And if 'tis on his own account or mine : 
Tis true, he hath the deepest share in all 
That's likely now to hap, or which has 

happen'd. 
Yetstrong through Nature's universal reign, 
The link which binds the parent to the off- 
spring : 
The she-wolf knows it, and the tigress 

owns it. 
So that dark man, who, shunning what is 

vicious, 
Ne'er turn'd aside from an atrocity, 
Hath still some care left for his hapless 

offspring. 
Therefore 'tis meet, though wayward, 

light, and stubborn, 
That I should do for him all that a son 
Can do for sire — and his dark wisdom 

join'd 
To influence my bold courses, 'twill be hard 
To break our mutual purpose. — Horses 

there ! [Exit. 

ACT III.— Scene I. 

It is Moonlight. The Scene is the Beach 
beneath the Tower which was exhibited 
in the first scene, — the Vessel is gone 
from her anchorage. Auchindrane 
and Philip, as if ' dis?notinted from their 
horses, come forward cautiously. 

Phi. The nags are safely stow'd. Their 

noise might scare him ; 
Let them be safe, and ready when we 

need them. 
The business is but short. We'll call 

Mac Lilian, 
To wake him, and in quiet bring him forth, 
If he be so disposed, for here are waters 
Enough to drown, and sand enough to 

cover him. 
But if he hesitate, or fear to meet us, 
By heaven I'll deal on him in Chapeldonan 
With my own hand ! — 
Auch. Too furious boy ! alarm or noise 

undoes us : 
Our practice must be silent as 'tis sudden. 



Bethink thee thaf conviction of this slaugh- 
ter 
Confirms the very worst of accusations 
Our foes can bring against us. Wherefore 

should we 
Who by our birth and fortune mate with 

nobles, 
And are allied with them, take this lad's 

life, — 
His peasant life, —unless to quash his 

evidence, 
Taking such pains to rid him from the 

world, 
Who would, if spared, have fix'd a crime 

upon us. 
Phi. Well, I do own me one of those 

wise folks, 
Who think that when a deed of fate is 

plann'd, 
The execution cannot be too rapid. 
But do we still keep purpose? Is't de- 
termined 
He sails for Ireland — and without a 

wherry ? 
Salt water is his passport — is it not so? 

Auch. I would it could be otherwise ! 
Might he not go there while in life and 

limb, 
And breathe his span out in another air? 
Many seek Ulster never to return — 
Why might this wretched youth not har- 
bour there? 
Phi. With all my heart. It is small 

honour to me 
To be the agent in a work like this. — 
Yet this poor caitiff, having thrust himself 
Into the secrets of a noble house, 
And twined himself so closely with our 

safety, 
That we must perish, or that he must die, 
I'll hesitate as little on the action, 
As I would do to slay the animal 
Whose flesh supplies my dinner. 'Tis as 

harmless, 
That deer or steer, as is this Quentin Blane, 
And not more necessary is its death 
To our accommodation — so we slay it 
Without a moment's pause or hesitation. 
Auch. 'Tis not, my son, the feeling 

call'd remorse, 
That now lies tugging at this heart of 

mine, 
Engendering thoughts that stop the lifted 

hand. 
Have I not heard John Knox pour forth 

his thunders 



AUCHINDRANE. 



509 



Against the oppressor and the man of 

blood, 
In accents of a minister of vengeance? 
Were not his fiery eyeballs tum'd on me, 
As if he said expressly, "Thou'rtthe man?" 
Yet did my solid purpose, as I listen'd, 
Remain unshaken as that massive rock. 
Phi. Well, then, I'll understand 'tis not 

remorse, — 
As 'tis a foible litde known to thee, — 
That interrupts thy purpose. What, then, 

is it? 
Is't scorn, or is't compassion? One thing's 

certain, — 
Either the feeling must have free indulg- 
ence, 
Or fully be subjected to your reason — 
There is no room for these same treach'- 

rous courses, 
Which men call moderate measures. 
We must confide in Quentin, or must slay 

him. 
AUCM. In Ireland he might live afar 

from us. 
Phi. Among Queen Mary's faithful par- 
tisans, 
Your ancient enemies, the haughty Hamil- 

tons, 
The stern MacDonnells and resentful 

Graemes — " 
With these around him, and with Cassilis' 

death 
Exasperating them against you, think, my 

father, 
-What chance of Quentin's silence. 

Auch. Too true — too true. He is a 

silly youth, too, 
Who had not wit to shift for his own 

living — 
A bashful lover, whom his rivals laugh' d 

at— 
Of pliant temper, which companions 

play'd on — 
A moonlight waker, and a noontide 

dreamer — 
A torturer of phrases into sonnets, 
Whom all might lead that chose to praise 

his rhymes. 
Phi. I marvel that your memory has 

room 
To hold so much on such a worthless 

subject. 
Auch. Base in himself, and yet so 

strangely link'd 
With me and with my fortunes, that I've 

studied 



To read him through and through, as I 

would read 
Some paltry rhyme of vulgar prophecy, 
Said to contain the fortunes of my house ; 
And let me speak him truly — He is grateful, 
Kind, tractable, obedient— a child 
Might lead him by a thread— He shall not 

,die! 
Phi. Indeed! — then have we had our 

midnight ride 
To wondrous little purpose. 

Auch. By the blue heaven, 

Thou shalt not murder him, cold, selfish 

sensualist ! 
Yon pure vault speaks it— yonder summer 

moon, 
With its ten million sparklers, cries, For- 
bear! 
The deep earth sighs it forth — Thou shalt 

not murder ! 
Thou shalt not mar the image of thy maker! 
Thou shalt not from thy brother take the 

life, 
The gracious gift which God alone can give • 
Phi. Here is a worthy guerdon now, for 

stuffing 
His memory with old sawsand holy sayings! 
They come upon him in the very crisis, 
And when his resolution should be firmest, 
They shake it like a palsy. — Let it be, 
He'll end at last by yielding to temptation, 
Consenting to the thing which must be 

done, 
With more remorse the more he hesi- 
tates. — 
(To his Father, who has stood fixed after 

his last speech) — 
Well, sir, 'tis fitting you resolve at last, 
How the young clerk should be disposed 

upon; 
Unless you would ride home to Auchin- 

drane, 
And bid them rear the maiden in the 

court-yard, 
That when Dunbar comes, he have nought 

to do 
But bid us kiss the cushion and the heads- 
man. 
Auch. It is too true— There is no 

safety for us, 
Consistent with the unhappy wretch's life ! 
In Ireland he is sure to find my enemies. 
Arran I've proved— the Netherlands I've 

tried, 
But wilds and wars return him on my 

hands. 



5i° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Phi. Yet fear not, father, we'll make 
surer work ; 
The land has caves, the sea has whirlpools, 
Where that which they suck in returns no 
more. 
Auch. I will know nought of it, hard- 
hearted boy ! 
Phi. Hard-hearted! Why— my heart 
is soft as yours ; 
But then they must not feel remorse at 

once — 
We can't afford such wasteful tenderness : 
I can mouth forth remorse as well as you. 
Be executioner, and I'll be chaplain, 
And say as mild and moving things as you 

can ; 
But one of us must keep his steely temper. 
Auch. Do thou the deed— I cannot 

look on it. 
Phi. So be it. Walk with me— Mac- 
Lellan brings him. 
The boat lies moor'd within that reach of 

rock, 
And 'twill require our greatest strength 

combined 
To launch it from the beach. Meantime, 

MacLellan 
Brings our man hither. — See the twink- 
ling light 
That glances in the tower. 
Auch. Let us withdraw — for should he 
spy us suddenly, 
He may suspect us, and alarm the family. 
Phi. Fear not — MacLellan has his 
trust and confidence, 
Bought with a few sweet words and wel- 
comes home. 
Auch. But think you that the Ranger 

may be trusted ? 
Phi. I'll answer for him, — Let's go float 
the shallop. 

[They go off, and as they leave the 
Stage, MacLellan is seen de- 
scending from the Tower with 
Quentin. The former bears a 
dark lantern. They come upon 
the Stage. 
MAC {showing the light) — 
So — bravely done— that's the last ledge of 

rocks, 
And we are on the sands. — I have broke 

your slumbers 
Somewhat untimely. 

Que. Do not think so, friend. 

These six years past I have been used to 
stir 



When the reVeille rung ; and that, believe 
me, 

Chooses the hours for rousing me at ran- 
dom, 

And, having given its summons, yields no 
license 

To indulge a second slumber. Nay more, 
I'll tell thee, 

That, like a pleased child, I was e'en too 
happy 

For sound repose. 
Mac. The greater fool were you. 

Men should enjoy the moments given to 
slumber ; 

For who can tell how soon may be the 
waking, 

Or where we shall have leave to sleep 
again ? 
Que. The God of Slumber comes not 
at command. 

Last night the blood danced merry through 
my veins : 

Instead of finding this cur land of Carrick 

The dreary waste my fears had appre- 
hended, 

I saw thy wife, MacLellan, and thy daugh- 
ter, 

And had a brother's welcome ; saw thee, 
too, 

Renew'cl my early friendship with you 
both, 

And felt once more that I had friends and 
country. 

So keen the joy that tingled through my 
system, 

Join'd with the searching powers of yon- 
der wine, 

That I am glad to leave my feverish lair, 

Although my hostess smooth'd my couch 
herself, 

To cool my brow upon "this moonlight 
beach, 

Gaze on the moonlight dancing on the 
waves. 

Such scenes are wont to soothe me into 
melancholy ; 

But such the hurry of my spirits now, 

That everything I look on makes me laugh. 
Mac. I've seen but few so gamesome. 
Master Quentin, 

Being roused from sleep so suddenly as 
you were. 
Que. Why, there's the jest on't. Your 
old castle's haunted. 

In vain the host — in vain the lovely hostess, 

In kind addition to all means of rest, 



A UCHINDRANE, 



511 



Add their best wishes for our sound re- 
pose, 
When some hobgoblin brings a pressing 

message : 
Montgomery presently must see his [ser- 
geant, 
And up gets Hildeb rand, and off he trudges. 
I can't but laugh to think upon the grin 
With which he doff'd the kerchief he had 

twisted 
Around his brows, and put his morion on — 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Mac. I m glad to see you merry, 

Quentin. 
Que. Why, faith, my spirits are but 

transitory, 
And you may live withjne a month or 

more, 
And never see me smile. Then some such 

trifle 
As yonder little maid of yours would laugh 

at, 
Will serve me for a theme of merriment — 
Even now, I scarce can keep my gravity ; 
We were so snugly settled in our quarters, 
With full intent to let the sun be high 
Ere we should leave our beds— and first 

the one 
And then the other's summon'd briefly 

forth, 
To the old tune, "Black Bandsmen, up 

and march ! " 
Mac. Well, you shall sleep anon — rely 

upon it — 
And make up time misspent. Meantime, 

methinks, 
You are so merry on your broken slumbers, 
You ask'd not why I call'd you. 

Que. I can guess, 

You lack my aid to search the weir for 

seals, 
You lack my company to stalk a deer. 
Think you I have forgot your sylvan tasks, 
Which oft you have permitted me to share, 
Till days that we were rivals ? 

Mac. You have memory 

Of that too !— 

Que. Like the memory of a dream, 
Delusion far too exquisite to last. 

Mac. You guess not then for what I 

call you forth ! 
It was to meet a friend — 

Que. What friend? Thyself excepted, 
The good old man who's gone to see 

Montgomery, 
And one to whom I once gave dearer title, 



I know not in wide Scotland man or 

woman 
Whom I could name a friend. 
Mac. Thou art mistaken. 

There is a Baron, and a powerful one 

Que. There flies my fit of mirth. You 
have a grave 
And altcr'd man before you. 

Mac. Compose yourself, there is no 
cause for fear, — 
He will and must speak with you. 
Que. Spare me the meeting, Niel, — I 
cannot see him. 
Say, I'm just landed on my native earth ; 
Say, that I will not cumber it a day ; 
Say, that my wretched thread of poor 

existence 
Shall be drawn out in solitude and exile, 
Where never memory of so mean a thing 
Again shall cross his path — but do not 

ask me 
To seek or speak again with that dark man ! 
Mac. Your fears are now as foolish as 
your mirth — 
What should the powerful Knight of Au- 

chindrane 
In common have with such a man as thou ? 
Que. No matter what — Enough, I will 

not see him. 
Mac. He is thy master, and he claims 

obedience. 
Que. My master? Ay, my task-mas- 
ter — Ever since 
I could write man, his hand hath been 

upon me ; 
No step I've made but cumber'd with his 

chain, 
And I am weary on't — I will not see him. 
Mac. You must and shall — there is no 

remedy. 
Que. Take heed that you compel me 
not to find one. 
I've seen the wars since we had strife to- 
gether ; 
To put my late experience to the test 
Were something dangerous — Ha! I am 
be tray' d ! 

[While the latter part of this dia- 
logue is passing, Auchindrane 
and Philip enter on the Stage 
from behind and sudde?ily pre- 
sent themselves. 
Auch. What says the runagate ? 
Que. {laying aside all appearance of 
resistance) — 
Nothing. You are my fate ; 



512 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And in a shape more fearfully resistless, 

My evil angel could not stand before me. 
Auch. And so you scruple, slave, at 
my command, 

To meet me when I deign to ask thy pre- 
sence? 
Que. No, sir ; I had forgot — I am your 
bond-slave ; 

But sure a passing thought of independ- 
ence, 

For which I've seen whole nations doing 
battle, 

Was not, in one who has so long enjoyed 
it, 

A crime beyond forgiveness. 
Auch. We shall see : 

Thou wert my vassal, born upon my land, 

Bred by my bounty — It concern'd me 
highly, 

Thou know'st it did — and yet, against my 
charge, 

Again I find thy worthlessness in Scotland. 
Que. Alas ! the wealthy and the power- 
ful know not 

How very dear to those who have least 
share in't, 

Is that sweet « ord of country ! The poor 
exile 

Feels, in each action of the varied day, 

His doom of banishment. The very air 

Cools not his brow as in his native land ; 

The scene is strange, the food is loathly 
to him ; 

The language — nay, the music jars his ear. 

Why should I, guiltless of the slightest 
crime, 

Suffer a punishment which, sparing life, 

Deprives that life of all which men hold 
dear? 
Auch. Hear ye the serf I bred begin to 
reckon 

Upon his rights and pleasure ! Who am 

Thou abject, who am I, whose will thou 

thwartest? 
Phi. Well spoke, my pious sire. There 

goes remorse ! 
Let once thy precious pride take fire, and 

then, 
MacLellan, you and I may have small 

trouble. 
Que. Your words are deadly, and your 

power resistless ; 
I'm in your hands — but, surely, less than 

life 
May give you the security you seek, 



Without commission of a mortal crime. 
Auch. Who is't would deign to think 
upon thy life? 
I but require of thee tc speed to Ireland, 
Where thou may'st sojourn for some little 

space, 
Having due means of living dealt to thee, 
And, when it suits the changes of the times, 
Permission to return. 

Que. Noble my lord, 

I am too weak to combat with your plea- 
sure; 
Yet O, for mercy's sake, and for the sake 
Of that dear land which is our common 

mother, 
Let me not part in darkness from my 

country ! 
Pass but an hour or two, and every cape, 
Headland, and bay, shall gleam with new- 
born light, 
And I'll take boat as gaily as the bird 
That soars to meet the morning. 
Giant me but this — to show no darker 

thoughts 
Are on your heart than those your speech 
expresses ! 
Phi. A modest favour, friend, is this 
you ask ! 
Are we to pace the beach like watermen, 
Waiting your worship's pleasure to take 

boat? 
No, by my faith ! you go upon the instant, 
The boat lies ready, and the ship receives 

you 
Near to the Point of Turnberry. — Come, 

we wait you ; 
Bestir you ! 

Que. I obey. — Then farewell, Scotland ! 
And Heaven forgive my sins, and grant that 

mercy, 
Which mortal man deserves not ! 
Auch. [speaks aside to his Son)— What 
signal 
Shall let me know 'tis done? 

Phi. When the light is quench'd, 

Your fears for QuentinBlaneare at an end. — 

[To Que.) Come, comrade, come, we must 

begin our voyage. 

Que. But when— O when to end itl 

[He goes of reluctantly with Philip 

and MacLellan. Auchin- 

DRANE stands looking after them. 

The Moon becomes overclouded, 

and the Stage dark. Auchin- 

DRANE, who has gazed fixedly 

and eagerly after those who have 



AUCHINDRANE. 



5'3 



left the stage, becomes animated, 
and speaks. 
Auch. It is no fallacy! — The night is 

dark, 
The moon has sunk before the deepening 

clouds ; 
I cannot on the murky beach distinguish 
The shallop from the rocks which He be- 
side it ; 
I cannot see tall Philip's floating plume, 
Nor trace the sullen brow of Niel Mac- 

Lellan ; 
Yet still that caitiff's visage is before me, 
With chattering teeth, mazed look, and 

bristling hair, 
As he stood here this moment! — Have I 

changed 
My human eyes for those of some night 

prowler, 
The wolfs, the tiger-cat's, or the hoarse 

bird's 
That spies its prey at midnight? I can 

see him — 
Yes, I can see him, 'seeing no one else, — 
And well it is I do so. In his absence, 
Strange thoughts of pity mingled with my 

purpose, 
And moved remorse within me — But they 

vanish 'd 
Whene'er he stood a living man before 

me; 
Then my antipathy awaked within me, 
Seeing its object close within my reach, 
Till I could scarce forbear him. — How they 

linger ! 
The boat's not yet to sea ! — I ask myself, 
What has the poor wretch done to wake 

my hatred — 
Docile, obedient, and in sufferance pa- 
tient ?— 
As well demand what evil has the hare 
Done to the hound that courses her in sport. 
Instinct infallible supplies the reason — 
And that must plead my cause. — The 

vision's gone ! 
Their boat now walks the waves ; a single 

gleam, 
Now seen, now lost, is all that marks her 

course; 
That soon shall vanish too — then all is 

over ! — 
Would it were o'er, for in this moment lies 
The agony of ages ; — Now, 'tis gone — 
And all is acted ! — No— she breasts again 
The opposing wave, and bears the tiny 

sparkle 



Upon her crest— (A faint cry heard as 

from seaward.) 

Ah ! there was fatal evidence, 
All's over now, indeed ! — The light is 

quench'd — 
And Quentin, source of all my fear, exists 

not. — 
The morning tide shall sweep his corpse 

to sea. 
And hide all memory of this stern night's 

work. 

[He walks in a slow and deeply 
meditative manner towards the 
side of the Stage, and suddenly 
meets MASION, the wife of Mac 
Lellan, who has descended from 
the Castle. 
Now, how to meet Dunbar — Heaven guard 

my senses ! 
Stand ! who goes there ? — Do spirits walk 

the earth 
Ere yet they've left the body! 

Mar. Is it you, 

My lord, on this wild beach at such an 

hour? 
Auch. It is MacLellan's wife, in search 

of him, 
Or of her lover— of the murderer, 
Or of the murder'd man. — Go to, Dame 

Marion ; 
Men have their hunting-gear to give an 

eye to, 
Their'snares and trackings for their game. 

But women 
Should shun the night air. A young wife 

also, 
Still more a handsome one, should keep 

her pillow 
Till the sun gives example for her wakening. 
Come, dame, go back — back to your bed 

again. 
Mar. Hear me, my lord! there have 

been sights and sounds 
That terrified my child and me — Groans, 

screams, 
As if of dying seamen, came from ocean — 
A corpse-light danced upon the crested 

waves 
For several minutes' space, then sunk at 

once. 
When we retired to rest we had two guests, 
Besides my husband Niel — I'll tell your 

lordship 

Who the men were 

Auch. Pshaw, woman, can you think 
That I have any interest in your gossips ? 

33 



5U 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORK'S. 



Please your own husband, and that you 

may please him, 
Get thee to bed, and shut up doors, good 

dame. 
Were I MacLellan, I should scarce be 

satisfied 
To find thee wandering here in mist and 

moonlight, 
When silence should be in thy habitation, 
And sleep upon thy pillow. 

Mar. Good my lord, 

This is a holyday. — By an ancient custom 
Our children seek the shore at break of day, 
And gather shells, and dance, and play, 

and sport them 
In honour of the Ocean. Old men say 
The custom is derived from heathen times. 

Our Isabel 
Is mistress of the feast, and you may think 
She is awake already, and impatient 
To be the first shall stand upon the beach, 
And bid the sun good-morrow. 

Auch. Ay, indeed? 

Linger such dregs of heathendom among 

you? 
And hath Knox preach'd, and Wishart 

died, in vain? 
Take notice, I forbid these sinful practices, 
And will not have my followers mingle in 

them. 
Mar. If such your honour's pleasure, I 

must go 
And lock the door on Isabel ; she is wilful, 
And voice of mine will have small force to 

keep her 
From the amusement she so long has 

dream'd of. 
But I must tell your honour, the old people, 
That were survivors of the former race, 
Prophesied evil if this day should pass 
Without due homage to the mighty Ocean. 
Auch. Folly and Papistry — Perhaps the 

Ocean 
Hath had his morning sacrifice already ; 
Or can you think the dreadful element, 
Whose frown is death, whose roar the 

dirge of navies, 
Will miss the idle pageant you prepare ? 
I've business for you, too — the dawn ad- 
vances — 
I'd have thee lock thy little child in safety, 
And get to Auchindrane before the sunrise ; 
Tell them to get a royal banquet ready, 
As if a king were coming there to feast him. 
Mar. I will obey your pleasure. But 

my husband 



Auch. I wait him on the beach, and 
bring him in 
To share the banquet. 

Mar. But he has a friend, 

Whom it would ill become him to intrude 
Upon your hospitality. 
Auch. Fear not; his friend shall be 
made welcome too, 
Should he return with Niel. 
Mar . He must— he will return— he has 

no option. 
AUCH. {apart). Thus rashly do we deem 
of others' destiny — 
He has indeed no option — but he comes not 
Begone on thy commission — I go this way 
To meet thy husband. 

[Marion goes to her Tower, and 
after entering it, is seen to come 
out, lock the door, and leave the 
stage, as if to execute Auchin- 
DRANE's commission. He, ap- 
parently going off in a different 
direction, has watched her from 
the side of the stage, and on her 
departure speaks. 
Auch. Fare thee well, fond woman, 
Most dangerous of spies — thou prying, 

prating, 
Spying, and telling woman ! I've cut short 
Thy dangerous testimony — Hated word ! 
What other evidence have we cut short, 
And by what fated means, this dreary 

morning ! — 
Bright lances here and helmets ? — I must 

shift 
To join the others. {Exit. 

Enter from the other side the SERGEANT, 
acconipajiied with an Officer and two 
Pikemen. 

Ser. 'Twas in good time you came ; a 
minute later 
The knaves had ta'en my dollars and my life. 
Off. You fought most stoutly. Two of 
them were down 
Ere we came to your aid. 

Ser. Gramercy, halberd ! 

And well it'happens, since your leader seeks 
This Quentin Blane, that you have fall'n 

on me ; 
None else can surely tell you where he hides, 
Being in some fear, and bent to quit this 
province. 
Off. 'Twill do our Earl good service. 
He has sent 
Despatches into Holland for this Quentin. 



AUCHINDRANE. 



5iS 



See. I left him two hours since in yon- 
der tower, 
Under the guard of one who smoothly 

spoke, 
Although he look'd but roughly — I will 

chide him 
Forbidding me go forth with yonder trai- 
tor. 
Off. Assure yourself 'twas a concerted 
stratagem. 
.Montgomery's been at Holyrood for 

months, 
And can have sent no letter — 'twas a plan 
On you and on your dollars, and a base 

one, 
To which this Ranger was most likely 

privy. 
Such men as he hang on our fiercer barons, 
The ready agents of their lawless will ; 
Boys of the belt, who aid their master's 

pleasures, 
And in his moods ne'er scruple his injunc- 
tions. 
But haste, for now we must unkennel 

Quentin ; 
I've strictest charge concerning him. 

Ser. Go up, then, to the tower. 
You've younger limbs than mine: there 

shall you find him 
Lounging and snoring, like a lazy cur 
Before a stable door ; it is his practice. 

[ T/ie Officer goes -up to the Tower, 
and after knocking without receiv- 
ing an answer, turns thekey which 
Marion had left in the lock, and 
enters; Isabel, dressed as if for 
her dance, runs outand descends 
to the Stage ; the Officer fol- 
lows. 
Off. There's no one in the house, this 
little maid 

Excepted 

ISA. And for me, I'm there no longer, 
And will not be again for three hours good : 
I'm gone to join my playmates on the 
sands. 
Off. (detaining he?-). You shall, when 
you have told to me distinctly 
Where are the guests who slept up there 
last night. 
ISA. Why, there is the old man, he 
stands beside you, 
The merry old man with the glistening 

hair ; 
He left the tower at midnight, for my 
father 



Brought him a letter. 

Ser. In ill hour I left you, 

I wish to Heaven that I had stay'd with 

you! 
There is a nameless horror that comes o'er 

me. — 
Speak, pretty maiden, tell us what chanced 

next, 
And thou shalt have thy freedom. 

ISA. After you went last night, my father 
Grew moody, and refused to doff his 

clothes, 
Or go to bed, as sometimes he will do 
When there is aught to chafe him. Until 

past midnight, 
He wander'd to and fro, then call'd the 

stranger, 
The gay young man, that sung such merry 

songs, 
Yet ever look'd most sadly whilst he sung 

them ; 
And forth they went together. 

Off. And you've seen 

Or heard nought of them since ? 

ISA. Seen surely nothing, and I cannot 

think 
That they have lot or share in what I heard. 
I heard my mother praying, for the corpse- 
lights 
Were dancing on the waves ; and at one 

o'clock, 
Just as the Abbey steeple toll'd the knell, 
There was a heavy plunge upon the waters, 
And some one cried aloud for mercy ! — 



mercy 



It was the water-spirit, . sure, which pro- 
mised 
Mercy to boat and fisherman, if we 
Perform'd to-day's rites duly. Let me go — 
I am to lead the ring. 
Off. (to Ser.) Detain her not. She 
cannot tell us more ; 
To give her liberty is the sure way 
To lure her parents homeward. — Strahan, 

take two men, 
And should the father or the mother come, 
Arrest them both, or either. Auchindrane 
May come upon the beach ; arrest him 

also, 
But do not state a cause. I'll back again, 
And take directions from my Lord Dunbar. 
Keep you upon the beach, and have an eye 
To all that passes there. 

\Exeunt separately. 



5 i6 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



SCENE II. 
Scene changes to a remote and rocky part 

of the Seabeach. 
Enter Auchindrane, meeting Philip. 
Auch. The devil's brought his legions 

to this beach, 
That wont to be so lonely ; morions, lances, 
Show in the morning beam as thick as 

glowworms 
At summer midnight. 

Phi. I'm right glad to see them, 

Be they whoe'er they may, so they are 

mortal ; % 

For I've contended with a lifeless foe, 
And I have lost the battle. I would give 
A thousand crowns to hear a mortal steel 
Ring on a mortal harness. 
Auch. How now! art mad? or hast 

thou done the turn — 
The turn we came for, and must live or 

die by? 
Phi. 'lis done, if man can do it ; but I 

doubt 
If this unhappy wretch have Heaven's per- 
mission 
To die by mortal hands. 
Auch. Where is he? — where's Mac- 

Lellan? 
Phi. In the deep — 

Both in the deep, and what's immortal of 

them 
Gone to the judgment-seat, where we 

must meet them. 
Auch. MacLellan dead, and Quentin 

too? — So be it 
To all that menace ill to Auchindrane, 
Or have the power to injure ! — Thy words 
Are full of comfort, but thine eye and 

look 
Have in this pallid gloom a ghastliness, 
Which contradicts the tidings of thy 

tongue. 
Phi. Hear me, old man— There is a 

heaven above us, 
As you have heard old Knox and Wishart 

preach, 
Though little to your boot. The dreaded 

witness 
Is slain, and silent. But his misused 

body 
Comes right ashore, as if to cry for venge- 
ance ; 
It rides the waters like a living thing, 
Erect, as if he trode the waves which bear 

him. 



Auch. Thou speakest frenzy, when 

sense is most required. 
Phi. Hear me yet more! — I say I did 

the deed 
With all the coolness of a practised hunter 
When dealing with a stag. I struck him 

overboard, 
And with MacLellan's aid I held his head 
Under the waters, while the Ranger tied 
The weights we had provided to his feet. 
We cast him loose when life and body 

parted, 
And bid him speed for Ireland. But even 

then, 
As in defiance of the words we spoke, 
The body rose upright behind our stern, 
One half in ocean, and one half in air, 
And tided after as in chase of us. 
Auch. It was enchantment! — Did you 

strike at it? 
Phi. Once and again. But blows avail'd 

no more 
Than on a wreath of smoke, where they 

may break 
The column for a moment, which unites 
And is entire again. Thus the dead body 
Sunk down before my oar, but rose un- 

harm'd, 
And dogg'd us closer still, as in defiance. 

Auch. 'Twas Hell's own work ! 

Phi. MacLellan then grew restive 

And, desperate in his fear, blasphemed 

aloud, 
Cursing us both as authors of his ruin. 
Myself was well-nigh frantic while pursued 
By this dread shape, upon whose ghastly 

features 
The changeful moonbeam spread a grisly 

light ; 
And, baited thus, I took the nearest way 
To ensure his silence, and to quell his 

noise ; 
I used my dagger, and I flung him over- 
board, 
And half expected his dead carcass also 
Would join the chase — but he sunk down 

at once. 
Auch. He had enough of mortal sin 

about him, 
To sink an argosy. 

Phi. But now resolve you what defence 

to make, 
If Quentin's body shall be recognized ; 
For 'tis ashore already ; and he bears 
Marks of my handiwork — so does Mac- 
Lellan . 



Auch. The concourse thickens still — 
Away, away ! 
We must avoid the multitude. 

[They rush out. 

Scene III. 
Scene changes to another part of the Beach. 
Children arc seen dancing, and Vil- 
lagers looking on. Isabel seems to 
take the management of the Dance. 
ViL. Wom. How well she queens it, the 

brave little maiden ! 
ViL. Ay, they all queen it from their 
very cradle, 
These willing slaves of haughty Auchin- 

drane. 
But now I hear the old man's reign is 

ended ; — 
'Tis well — he has b.en tyrant long enough. 
Second Vil. Finlay, speak low — you 

interrupt the sports. 
Third Vil. Look out to sea— There's 
something coming yonder, 
Bound for the beach, will scare us from 
our mirth. 
Fourth Vil. Pshaw ! it is but a sea- 
gull on the wing, 
Between the wave and sky. 

Third Vil. Thou art a fool, 

Standing on solid land — 'tis a dead body. 

Second Vil. And if it be, he bears him 

like a live one, 

Not prone and weltering like a drowned 

corpse, 
But bolt erect, as if he trode the waters, 
And used them as his path. 

Fourth Vil. It is a merman, 

And nothing of this earth, alive or dead. 

[By degrees all the Dancers break off 
from their sport, and sta?id gazing 
to seaward, while an object, im- 
pel feet ly seen, drifts towards the 
Beach, and at length arrives 
among the rocks which border the 
tide. 
Third Vil. Perhaps it is some wretch 
who needs assistance ; 
Jasper, make in and see. 

Second Vil. Not I, my friend ; 

E'en take the risk yourself, you'd put on 
others. 

[Hildebrand has entered, and 
heard the two last words. 
Ser. What, are you men ? 
Fear ye to look on what you must be one 
day? 



I, who have seen a thousand dead and 

dying 
Within a flight-shot square, will teach you 

how in war 
We look upon the corpse when life has 
left it. 

[He goes to the back scene, and seems 
attempting to turn the body, wh ich 
has come ashore with its face 
downwards. 
Will none of you come aid to turn the 
body? 
ISA. You're cowards all. — I'll help thee, 
good old man. 
[She goes to aid the Sergeant with 
the body, and presently gives a 
cry, and faints. HlLDEBRAND 
comes forward. A 11 crcnud round 
him; he speaks with an expres- 
sion of horror. 
Ser. 'Tis Quentin Blane ! Poor youth, 
his gloomy bodings 
Have been the prologue to an act of dark- 
ness; 
His feet are manacled, his bosom stabb'd, 
And he is foully murder'd. The proud 

Knight 
And his dark Ranger must have done this 

deed, 
For which no common ruffian could have 
motive. 
A Pea. Caution were best, old man — 
Thou art a stranger, 
The Knight is great and powerful. 

Ser. Let it be so. 

Call'd on by Heaven to stand forth an 

avenger, 
I will not blench for fear of mortal man. 
Have I not seen that when that innocent 
Had placed her hands upon the murder'd 

body, 
His gaping wounds, that erst were soak'd 

witli brine, 
Burst forth with blood as ruddy as the cloud 
Which now the sun doth rise on ! 

Pea. What of that ? 

Ser. Nothing that can affect the inno- 
cent child, 
But murder's guilt attaching to her father, 
Since the blood musters in the victim's 

veins 
At the approach of what holds lease from 

him 
Of all that parents can transmit to children. 
And here comes one to whom I'll vouch 
. the circumstance. 



5i8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The Earl of Dunbar enters with Sol- 
diers and others, having AUCHIN- 
drane and Philip prisoners. 

Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his 

trait' rous father ! 

[ They are made secure. 
Auch. 'Twas a lord spoke it — I have 

known a knight, 
Sir George of Home, who had not dared 

to say so. 
Dun. Tis Heaven, not I, decides upon 

your guilt. 
A harmless youth is traced within your 

power, 
Sleeps in your Ranger's house— his friend 

at midnight 
Is spirited away. Then lights are seen, 
And groans are heard, and corpses come 

ashore 
Mangled with daggers, while {to Phi.) 

your dagger wears 
The sanguine livery of recent slaughter : 
Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim, 



(Whom none but you had interest to re- 
move,) 
Bleeds on a child's approach, because 

the daughter 
Of one the abettor of the wicked deed ; — 
All this,- and other proofs corroborative, 
Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom 
We have in charge to utter. 
Auch. If my house perish, Heaven's 

will be done ! 
I wish not to survive it ; but, O Philip, 
Would one could pay the ransom for us 

both ! 
Phi. Father, 'tis fitter that we both 

should die, 
Leaving no heir behind.— The piety 
Of a bless'd saint, the morals of an 

anchorite, 
Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy, 
Or the wild profligacy I have practised. 
Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be our 

towers, 
And with them end the curse our sins have 

merited ! 



THE 



DOOM OF DEVORGOIL 



Jwface. 



The first of these dramatic pieces was long since written, for the purpose of obliging the late 
Mr. Terry, then Manager of the Adelphi Theatre, for whom the Author had a particular regard. 
The manner in which the mimic goblins of Devorgoil are intermixed with the supernatural 
machinery, was found to be objectionable, and the production had other faults, which rendered 
it unfit for representation. I have called the piece a Melo-drama, for want of a better name ; but, 
as I learn from the unquestionable authority of Mr. Colman's Random Records, that one species 
of the drama is termed an extravaganza, I am sorry I was not sooner aware of a more appro- 
priate name than that which I had selected for Devorgoil. 

The Author's Publishers thought it desirable, that the scenes, long condemned to oblivion, 
should be united to similar attempts of the same kind; and as he felt indifferent on the subject, 
they are printed in the same volume with Halidon Hill and MacDuff' s Cross, and thrown off in 
a separate form, for the convenience of those who possess former editions of the Author's 
Poetical Works. 

The general story of the Doom of Devorgoil is founded on an old Scottish tradition, the scene 
of which lies in Galloway. The crime supposed to have occasioned the misfortunes of this de- 
voted house, is similar to that of a Lord Henries of Hoddam Castle, who is the principal person- 
age of Mr. Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe's interesting ballad, in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish 
Border, vol. iv. p. 307. In remorse for his crime, he built the singular monument called the 
tower of Repentance. In many cases the Scottish superstitions allude to the fairies, or those 
who, for sins of a milder description, are permitted to wander with the " rout that never rest," as 
they were termed by Dr. Leyden. They imitate human labour and human amusements, but 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



M 



their toil is useless, and without any advantageous result ; and their gaiety is unsubstantial and 
hollow. The phantom of Lord Erick is supposed to be a spectre of this character. 

The story of the Ghostly Barber is told in many countries ; but the best narrative founded on 
the passage, is the tale called Stumme Liebe, among the legends of Musseus. I think it has been 
introduced upon the English stage in some pantomime, which was one objoction to bringing it 
upon the scene a second time. 
Abbotsfokd, April 1830. 

DRAMATIS PERSONS. 

Oswald of Devorgoil, a decayed Scottish Baron. 

Leonard, a Ranger. 

Durward, a Palmer. 

Lancelot Blackthorn, a Companion 0/ Leonard, in love with Katleen. 

Gullcammer, a conceited Student. 

Co V c L KLEDE^Mo'y^} i,// ' W ^^ , represented by Blackthorn and Flora. 
Spirit of Lord Erick of Devorgoil. 
Peasants, Shepherds, and Vassals of inferior rank. 

Eleanor, Wife of Oswald, descended of obscure Parentage. 
Flora, Daughter of Oswald. 
Katleen, Niece of Eleanor. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



ACT I.— Scene I. 

The Scene represents a wild and hilly, 
but not a mountainous Country, in a 
frontier district of Scotland. The flat 
• scene exhibits the Castle of Devorgoil, 
decayed, and partly ruinous, situated 
upon a Lake, and connected with the 
land by a Drawbridge, which is lowered. 
Time — Sunset. 

FLORA enters from the Castle, looks 
timidly around, then comes forward 
and speaks. 
He is not here — those pleasures are not 

ours 
Which placid evening brings to all things 
else. 

SONG. 

The sun upon the lake is low, 

The wild birds hush their song, 
The hills have evening's deepest glow, 

Yet Leonard tarries long. 
Now all whom varied toil and care 

From home and love divide, 
In the calm sunset may repair 

Each to the loved one's side. 



The noble dame, on turret high, 

Who waits her gallant knight, 
Looks to the western beam to spy 

The flash of armour bright. 
The village maid, with hand on brow, 

The level jay to shade, 
Upon the footpath watches now 

For Colin's darkening plaid. 

Now to their mates the wild swans row — 

By day they swam apart ; — 
And to the thicket wanders slow 

The hind beside the hart. 
The woodlark at his partner's side, 

Twitters his closing song — 
All meet whom day and care divide, 

But Leonard tarries long. 

[Katleen has come out of the 

Castle while FLORA was sing- 

ing, a?id speaks when the Song is 

ended. 

Kat. Ah, my dear coz !— if that your 

mother's niece 

May so presume to call your father's 

daughter — 
All these fond things have got some home 
of comfort 



520 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To tempt the rovers back — the lady's 

bower, 
The shepherdess's hut, the wild swan's 

couch 
Among the rushes, even the lark's low 

nest, 
Has that of promise which lures home a 

lover, — 
But we have nought of this. 
Flo. How call you, then, this castle of 

my sire, 
The towers of Devorgoil ? 

Kat. Dungeons for men, and palaces 

for owls ; 
Yet no wise owl would change a farmer's 

barn 
For yonder hungry hall — our latest mouse, 
Our last of mice, I tell you, has been found 
Starved in the pantry ; and the reverend 

spider, 
Sole living tenant of the Baron's halls, 
Who, train'd to abstinence, lived a whole 

summer 
Upon a single fly, he's famish'd too ; 
The cat is in the kitchen-chimney, seated 
Upon our last of fagots, destined soon 
To dress our last of suppers, and, poor 

soul, 
Is starved with cold, and mewling mad 

with hunger. 
Flo. D'ye mock our misery, Katleen? 
Kat. No, but I am hysteric on the 

subject, 
So I must laugh or cry, and laughing's 

lightest. 
Flo. Why stay you with us, then, my 

merry cousin ? 
1'iom you my sire can ask no filial duty. 

Kat. No, thanks to Heaven ! 
No Noble in wide Scotland, rich or poor, 
Can claim an interest in the vulgar blood 
That dances in my veins ; and I might wed 
A forester to-morrow, nothing fearing 
The wrath of high-born kindred, and far 

less 
That the dry bones of lead-lapp'd ancestors 
Would clatter in their cerements at the 

tidings. 
Flo. My mother, too, would gladly see 

you placed 
Beyond the verge of our unhappiness, 
Which, like a witch's circle, blights and 

taints 
Whatever comes within it. 

Kat. Ah ! my good aunt ! 

She is a careful kinswoman, and prudent 



In all but marrying a ruin'd baron, 
When she could take her choice of honest 

yeomen ; 
And now, to balance this ambitious error, 
She presses on her daughter's love the suit 
Of one who hath no touch of nobleness 
In manners, birth, or mind, to recommend 

him, — 
Sage Master Gullcrammer, the new-dubb'd 

preacher. 
Flo. Do not name him, Katleen ! 
Kat. Ay, but I must, and with some 

gratitude. 
I said but now, I saw our last of fagots 
Destined to dress our last of meals, but 

said not 
That the repast consisted of choice 

dainties, 
Sent to our larder by that liberal suitor, 
The kind Melchisedek. 

Flo. Were famishing the word, 

I'd famish ere I tasted them — the fop, 
The fool, the low-born, low-bred, pedant 

coxcomb ! 
Kat. There spoke the blood of long- 
descended sires ! 
My cottage wisdom ought to echo back, — 

the snug parsonage ! the well-paid 

stipend ! 
The yew-hedged garden ! bee-hives, pigs, 

and poultry ! 
But, to speak honestly, the peasant Kat- 
leen, 
Valuing these good things justly, still 

would scorn 
To wed, for such, the paltry Gullcrammer, 
As much as Lady Flora. 

Flo. Mock me not with a title, gentle 

cousin, 
Which poverty has made ridiculous. — 

[Trumpets far of. 
Hark ! they have broken up the weapon- 

shawing ; 
The vassals are dismiss'd, and marching 

homeward. 
Kat. Comes your sire back to-night ? 
Flo. He did purpose 

To tarry for the banquet. This day only, 
Summon'd as a king's tenant, he resumes 
The right of rank his birth assigns to him, 
And mingles with the proudest. 

Kat. To return 

To his domestic wretchedness to-morrow — 

1 envy not the privilege. Let us go 
To yonder height, and see the marksmen 

practise ; 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



521 



They shoot their match down in the dale 
beyond , 

Betwixt the Lowland and the Forest dis- 
trict, 

By ancient custom, for a tun of wine. 

Let us go see which wins. 

Flo. That were too forward. 

Kat. Why, you may drop the screen 
before your face, 

Which some chance breeze may haply 
blow aside 

Just when a youth of special note takes 
aim. 

It chanced even so that memorable morn- 
ing, 

When, nutting in the woods, we met young 
Leonard ; — 

And in good time here comes his sturdy 
comrade, 

The rough Lance Blackthorn. 

Enter Lancelot Blackthorn, a 
Forester, with the Carcass of a Deer 
on his back, and a Gun in his hand. 

Bla. Save you, damsels ! 

Kat. Godden, good yeoman. — Come 

you from the Weaponshaw ? 
Bla. Not I, indeed ; there lies the 
mark I shot at. 

[Lays down the Deer. 
The time has been I had not miss'd the 

sport, 
Although Lord Nithsdale's self had wanted 

venison ; 
But this same mate of mine, young Leo- 
nard Dacre, 
Makes me do what he lists ; — he'll win the 

prize, though 
The Forest district will not lose its honour, 
And that is all I care for — {some shouts are 

heard). Hark ! they're at it. 
I'll go see the issue. 

Flo. Leave not here 

The produce of your hunting. 

Bla. But I must, though. 

This is his lair to-night, for Leonard Dacre 
Charged me to leave the stag at Devor- 

goil; 
Then show me quickly where to stow the 

quarry, 
And let me to the sports — {more shots). 
Come, hasten damsels ! 
Flo. It is impossible — we dare not take 

it. 
Bla. There let it lie, then, and I'll wind 
my bugle, 



That all within these tottering walls may 

know 
That here lies venison, whoso likes to lift 
it. [About to blow. 

Kat. (to Flo.) He will alarm your 
mother ; and, besides, 
Our Forest proverb teaches, that no ques- 
tion 
Should ask where venison comes from. 
Your careful mother, with her wonted pru- 
dence, 
Will hold its presence plead its own apo- 
logy.— 
Come, Blackthorn, I will show you where 
to stow it. 

[Exeunt KATLEEN and BLACK- 
THORN into the Castle — more 
shooting — then a distant shout — 
Stragglers, armed in different 
ways, pass over the stage, as tj 
from the Weaponshaw. 
Flo. The prize is won; that general 
shout proclaim'd it. 
The marksmen and the vassals are dis- 
persing. [She draws back. 
First Vassal (a peasant). Ay, ay,— 
'tis lost and won, — the Forest have it. 
'Tis they have all the luck on't. 
Second Vas. (a shepherd). Luck, 
say'st thou, man? 'Tis practice, skill, 
and cunning. 
Third Vas. 'Tis no such thing.— I 
had hit the mark precisely, 
But for this cursed flint ; and, as I fired, 
A swallow cross'd mine eye too — Will you 

tell me 
That that was but a chance, mine honest 
shepherd ? 
First Vas. Ay, and last year, when 
Lancelot Blackthorn won it, 
Because my powder happen'd to be damp, 
Was there no luck in that ? — The worse 
luck mine. 
Sec. Vas. Still I say, 'twas not chance ; 

it might be witchcraft. 
First Vas. Faith, not unlikely, neigh- 
bours ; for these foresters 
Do often haunt about this ruin'd castle. 
I've seen myself this spark, — Young Leo- 
nard Dacre, — 
Come stealing like a ghost ere break of 

day, 
And after sunset, too, along this path ; 
And weli you know the haunted towers of 

Devorgoil 
Have no good reputation in the land. 



5* 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shep. That have they not. I've heard 
my father say, 
Ghosts dance as lightly in its moonlight 

halls, 
As ever maiden did at Midsummer 
Upon the village-green. 
First Vas. Those that frequent such 
spirit-haunted ruins 
Must needs know more than simple 

Christians do. — 
See, Lance this blessed moment leaves the 

castle, 
And comes to triumph o'er us. 

[Blackthorn enters from the 
Castle, and conies forward while 
they speak. 
Third Vas. A mighty triumph ! What 
is't, after all, 
Except the driving of a piece of lead, — 
As learned Master Gullcrammer defined 

it,— 
Just through the middle of a painted board? 
Black. And if he so define it, by your 
leave, 
Your learned Master Gullcrammer's an 
ass. 
Third Vas. {angrily) . He is a preacher, 

huntsman, under favour. 
Sec. Vas. No quarrelling, neighbours 
— you may both be right. 

Enter a Fourth Vassal, with a gallon 
stoup of wine. 

Fourth Vas. Why stand you brawl- 
ing here ? Young Leonard Dacre 

Has set abroach the tun of wine he gain'd, 

That all may drink who list. Blackthorn, 
I sought you ; 

Your comrade prays you will bestow this 

f flagon 

Where you have left the deer you kill'd 
this morning. 
Black. And that I will; but first we 
will take toll 

To see if it's worth carriage. Shepherd, 
thy horn. 

There must be due allowance made for 
leakage, 

And that will come about a draught a- 
piece. 

Skink it about, and, when our throats are 
liquor'd, 

We'll merrily trowl our song of Weapon- 
shaw. 
[They drink about out of the Shep- 
herd's horn, and then sing. 



SONG. 

We love the shrill trumpet, we love the 
drum's rattle, 

They call us to sport, and they call us to 
battle ; 

And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats 
of a stranger, 

While our comrades in pastime are com- 
rades in danger. 

If there's mirth in our house, 'tis our 

neighbour that shares it — 
If peril approach, 'tis our neighbour that 

dares it ; 
And when we lead off to the pipe and the 

tabor, 
The fair hand we press is the hand of a 

neighbour. 

Then close your ranks, comrades— the 
bands that combine them, 

Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, join'd 
to entwine them ; 

And we'll laugh at the threats of each in- 
solent stranger, 

While our comrades in sport are our com- 
rades in danger. 

Black. Well, I must do mine errand. 
Master flagon [Shaking it. 

Is too consumptive for another bleeding. 

Shep. I must to my fold. 

Third Vas. I'll to the butt of wine, 
And see if that has given up the ghost yet. 

First Vas. Have with you, neighbour. 
[Blackthorn enters the Castle, 
the rest exeunt severally. Mel- 
chisedek Gullcrammer 
watches them off the stage, and then 
enters from the side-scene. His 
costume is a Geneva cloak and 
band, with a- high-crowned hat; 
the rest of his dress in the fashion 
of James the First's time. He 
looks to the windows of the Castle, 
the?i draws back as if to escape 
observation, while he brushes his 
cloak, drives the white threads 
from his waistcoat with his wetted 
thumb, and dusts his shoes, all 
with the air of one who would 
not willingly be obsetvtd en- 
gaged in these offices. He then 
adjusts his collar and band, 
comes forward and speaks. 

Gull. Right comely is thy garb, Mel- 
chisedek ; 



" 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



523 



As well beseemeth one, whom good Saint 

M ungo, 
The patron of our land and university, 
Hath graced with license both to teach and 

preach — 
Who dare opine thou hither plod'st on 

foot? 
Trim sits thy cloak, unruffled is thy band, 
And not a speck upon thine outward man 
Bewrays the labours of thy weary sole. 

{Touches his shoe, and smiles com- 
placently. 
Quaint was that jest and pleasant ! — Now 

will I 
Approach and hail the dwellers of this fort ; 
But specially sweet Flora Devorgoil, 
Ere her proud sire return. He loves me 

not, 
Mocketh my lineage, flouts at mine ad- 
vancement — 
Sour as the fruit the crab-tree furnishes, 
And hard as is the cudgel it supplies ; 
But Flora — she's a lily on the lake, 
And I must reach her, though I risk a 
ducking. 

[As GULLCRAMMER moves towards 
the drawbridge, Bauldie Dur- 
WARD enters, and interposes him- 
self betwixt him and the Castle. 
GULLCRAMMER stops and speaks. 
Whom have we here? — that ancient for- 
tune-teller, 
Papist and sorcerer, and sturdy beggar, 
Old Bauldie Durward ! Would I were well 
past him ! 
[Durward advances, partly in the 
dress of a palmer, partly in that 
of an old Scottish jneiidicant, 
having coarse blue cloak and 
badge, white beard, &c. 
Dur. The blessing of the evening on 
your worship, 
And on your taff ty doublet. Much I 

marvel 
Your wisdom chooseth such trim garb, 

when tempests 
Are gathering to the bursting. 

GULLCRAMMER {looks to his dress, and 
then to the sky, with some appre- 
hension). Surely, Bauldie, 
Thou dost belie the evening — in the west 
The light sinks down as lovely as this band 
Drops o'er this mantle — Tush, man! 'twill 
be fair. 
Dur. Ay, but the storm I bode is big 
with blows, 



Horsewhips for hailstones, clubs for 
thunderbolts ; 

And for the wailing of the midnight wind, 

The unpitied howling of a cudgell'd cox- 
comb, 

Come, come, I know thou seek'st fair 
Flora Devorgoil. 
Gul. And if I did, I do the damsel 
grace. 

Her mother thinks so, and she has ac- 
cepted 

At these poor hands gifts of some conse- 
quence, 

And curious dainties for the evening cheer, 

To which I am invited — she respects me. 
Dur. But not so doth her father, 
haughty Oswald. 

Bethink thee, he's a baron 

Gul. And a bare one ; 

Construe me that, old man ! — The crofts 
of Mucklewhame — 

Destined for mine so soon as heaven and 
earth 

Have shared my uncle's soul and bones 
between them — 

The crofts of Mucklewhame, old man, 
which nourish 

Three scores of sheep, three cows, with 
each her follower, 

A female palfrey eke — I will be candid, 

She is of that meek tribe whom, in derision, 

Our wealthy southern neighbours nick- 
name donkeys 

Dur. She hath her follower too, — when 

thou art there. 
Gul. I say to thee, these crofts of 
Mucklewhame, 

In the mere tything of their stock and pro- 
duce, 

Outvie whatever patch of land remains 

To this old rugged castle and its owner. 

Well, therefore, may Melchisedek Gull- 
crammer, 

Younger of Mucklewhame, for such I 
write me, 

Master of Arts, by grace of good Saint 
Andrew, 

Preacher, in brief expectance of a kirk, 

Endow'd with ten score Scottish pounds 
per annum, 

Being eight pounds seventeen eight in 

sterling coin — 
Well then, I say, may this Melchisedek, 
Thus highly graced by fortune— and by 

nature 
E'en gifted as thou seest— aspire to woo 



5^4 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



The daughter of the beggar'd Devorgoil. 
Dur. Credit an old man's word, kind 
Master Gullcrammer, 
You will not find it so. — Come, Sir, I've 

known 
The hospitality of Mucklewhame ; 
It reach 'd not to profuseness — yet, in 

gratitude 
For the pure water of its living well, 
And for the barley loaves of its fair fields, 
Wherein chopp'd straw contended with 

the grain 
Which best should satisfy the appetite, 
I would not see the hopeful heir of Muc- 
klewhame 
Thus fling himself on danger. 

Gul. Danger! what danger! — Know'st 
thou not, old Oswald 
This day attends the muster of the shire, 
Where the crown-vassals meet to show 

their arms, 
And their best horse of service ? 'Twas 

good sport 
(An if a man had dared but laugh at it) 
To see old Oswald with his rusty morion, 
And huge two-handed sword, that might 

have seen 
The field of Bannockburn or Chevy-Chase, 
Without a squire or vassal, page or groom, 
Or e'en a single pikeman at his heels, 
Mix with the proudest nobles of the county, 
And claim precedence for his tatter'd per- 
son 
O'er armours double gilt and ostrich-plum- 
age. 
Dur. Ay ! 'twas the jest at which fools 
laugh the loudest, 
The downfall of our old nobility — 
Which may forerun the ruin of a king- 
dom. 
I've seen an idiot clap his hands, and 

shout 
To see a tower like yon [points to a part 

of the Castle) stoop to its base 
In headlong ruin ; while the wise look'd 

round, 
And fearful sought a distant stance to 

watch 
What fragment of the fabric next should 

follow ; 
For when the turrets fall, the walls are 
tottering. 
Gul. [after pondering). If that means 
aught, it means thou saw'st old 
Oswald 
Expell'd from the assembly. 



Dur. Thy sharp wit 

Hath glanced unwittingly right nigh the 
truth. 

Expell'd he was not, but, his claim de- 
nied 

At some contested point of ceremony, 

He left the weaponshaw in high displea- 
sure, 

And hither comes — his wonted bitter tem- 
per 

Scarce sweeten' d by the chances of the 
day. 

'Twere much like rashness should you 
wait his coming, 

And thither tends my counsel. 

Gul. And I'll take it ; 

Good Bauldie Durward, I will take thy 
counsel, 

And will requite it with this minted far- 
thing, 

That bears our sovereign's head in purest 
copper. 
. Dur. Thanks to thy bounty— Haste 
thee, good young master ; 

Oswald, besides the old two-handed sword, 

Bears in his hand a staff of potency, 

To charm intruders from his castle pur- 
lieus. 
Gul. I do abhor all charms, nor will 
abide 

To hear or see, far less to feel their use. 

Behold, I have departed. [Exit hastily. 

Manet Durward. 
Dur. Thus do I play the idle part of 
one 

Who seeks to save the moth from scorch- 
ing him 

In the bright taper's flame— and Flora's 
beauty 

Must, not unlike that taper, waste away, 

Gilding the rugged walls that saw it kin- 
dled. 

This was a shard-born beetle, heavy, 
drossy, 

Though boasting his dull drone and gild- 
ed wing. 

Here comes a fiutterer of another stamp, 

Whom the same ray is charming to his 
ruin. 

Enter Leonard, dressed as a huntsman ; 
he pauses before the Tower, and whis- 
tles a note or two at intervals — drawing 
back, as if fearful of observation— jet 
waiting, as if expecting some reply— 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



525 



DURWARD, whom he had not observed, 
moves round, so as io front LEONARD 

unexpectedly. 

Leon. I am too late — it was no easy 
task 
To rid myself from yonder noisy revellers. 
Flora !— I fear she's angry— Flora — Flora ! 

SONG. 

Admire not that I gain'd the prize 

From all the village crew ; 
How could I fail with hand or eyes, 

When heart and faith were true ! 

And when in floods of rosy wine 
My comrades drown'd their cares, 

I thought but that thy heart was mine, 
My own leapt light as theirs. 

My brief delay then do not blame, 
Nor deem your swain untrue ; 

My form but linger'd at the game, 
My soui was still with you. 

She hears not! 

Dur. But a friend hath heard — Leo- 
nard, I pity thee. 
Leon, (starts, but recovers himself). 

Pity, good father, is for those in want, 
In age, in sorrow, in distress of mind, 
Or agony of body. I'm in health — 
Can match my limbs against the stag in 

chase, 
Have means enough to meet my simple 

wants, 
And am so free of soul that I can carol 
To woodland and to wild in notes as lively 
As are my jolly bugle's. 

Dur. Even therefore dost thou need my 

pity, Leonard, 
And therefore I bestow it, praying thee, 
Before thou feel'st the need, my mite of 

pity. 
Leonard, thou lovest ; and in that little 

word 
There lies enough to claim the sympathy 
Of men who wear such hoary locks as mine, 
And know what misplaced love is sure to 

end in. 
Leon. Good father, thou art old, and 

even thy youth, 
As thou hast told me, spent in cloister'd 

cells, 
Fits thee but ill to judge the passions 
Which are the joy and charm of social life. 
Press me no farther, then, nor waste those 

moments 



Whose worth thou canst not estimate. 

[As turning from him. 

Dur. (detains him). Stay, young man! 

Tis seldom that a beggar claims a debt ; 

Yet I bethink me of a gay young stripling, 

That owes to these white locks and hoary 

beard 
Something of reverence and of gratitude 
More than he wills to pay. 

Leon. Forgive me, father. Often hast 

thou told me, 
That in the ruin of my father's house 
You saved the orphan Leonard in his 

cradle ; 
And well I know, that to thy care alone- 
Care seconded by means beyond thy seem- 
ing— 
I owe whate'er of nurture I can boast. 

Dur. Then for thy life preserved, 
And for the means of knowledge I have 

furnish'd, 
(Which lacking, man is levell'd with the 

brutes, ) 
Grant me this boon: — Avoid these fated 

walls ! 
A curse is on them, bitter, deep, and 

heavy, 
Of power to split the massiest tower they 

boast 
From pinnacle to dungeon vault. It rose 
Upon the gay horizon of proud Devorgoil, 
As unregarded as the fleecy cloud, 
The first forerunner of the hurricane, 
Scarce seen amid the welkin's shadeless 

blue, 
Dark grew it, and more dark, and still the 

fortunes 
Of this doom'd family have darken'd with 

it. 
Ithid their sovereign's favour, and obscured 
The lustre of their service, gender'd hate 
Betwixt them and the mighty of the land ; 
Till by degrees the waxing tempest rose, 
And stripp'd the goodly tree of fruit and 

flowers, 
And buds, and boughs, and branches. 

There remains 
A rugged trunk, dismember'd and un- 
sightly, 
Waiting the bursting of the final bolt 
To splinter it to shivers. Now, go pluck 
Its single tendril to enwreath thy brow, 
And rest beneath its shade— to share the 

ruin! 
Leon. This anathema, 
Whence should it come?— How merited? 

and when ? 



526 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Dur. 'Twas in the days 

Of Oswald's grandsire, — 'mid Galwegian 
chiefs 

The fellest foe, the fiercest champion. 

His blood-red pennons scared the Cum- 
brian coasts, 

And wasted towns and manors mark'd his 
progress. 

His galleys stored with treasure, and their 
decks 

Crowded with English captives, who be- 
held, 

With weeping eyes, their native shores re- 
tire, 

He bore him homeward ; but a tempest 

rose 

Leon. So far I've heard the tale, 

And spare thee the recital, — The grim 
chief, 

Marking his vessels labour on the sea, 

And loth to lose his treasure, gave com- 
mand 

To plunge his captives in the raging deep. 
Dur. There sunk the lineage of a noble 
name, 

And the wild waves boom'd over sire and 
son, 

Mother and nursling, of the House of 
Aglionby, 

Leaving but one frail tendril. — Hence the 
fate 

That hovers o'er these turrets, — hence the 
peasant, 

Belated, hying homewards, dreads to cast 

A glance upon that portal, lest he see 

The unshrouded spectres of the murder'd 
dead; 

Or the avenging Angel, with his sword, 

Waving destruction; or the grisly phan- 
tom 

Of that fell Chief, the doer of the deed, 

Which still, they say, roams through his 
empty halls, 

And mourns their wasteness and their 
lonelihood. 
Leon. Such is the dotage 

Of superstition, father — ay, and the cant 

Of hoodwink'd prejudice. — Not for atone- 
ment 

Of some foul deed done in the ancient war- 
fare, 

When war was butchery, and men were 
wolves, 

Doth Heaven consign the innocent to suf- 
fering. 

I tell thee, Flora's virtues might atone 



For all the massacres her sires have done, 
Since first the Pictish race their stained 

limbs 
Array' d in wolfs skin. 

Dur. Leonard, ere yet this beggar's 

scrip and cloak 
Supplied the place of mitre and of crosier, 
Which in these alter'd lands must not be 

worn, 
I was superior of a brotherhood 
Of holy men, — the Prior of Lanercost. 
Nobles then sought my footstool many a 

league, 
There to unload their sins — questions of 

conscience 
Of deepest import were not deem'd too nice 
For my decision, youth. But not even then, 
With mitre on my brow, and all the voice 
Which Romegives to a father of her church, 
Dared I pronounce so boldly on the ways 
Of hidden Providence, as thou, young man, 
Whose chiefest knowledge is to track a 

stag, 
Or wind a bugle, hast presumed to do. 

Leon. Nay, I pray forgive me, 
Father ; thou know'st I meant not to pre- 
sume 

Dur. Can I refuse thee pardon ? — Thou 

art all 
That war and change have left to the poor 

Durward. 
Thy father, too, who lost his life and for- 
tune 
Defending Lanercost, when its fair aisles 
Were spoil'd by sacrilege — I bless'd his 

banner, 
And yet it prosper'd not. But — all I 

could — 
Thee from the wreck I saved, and for thy 

sake 
Have still dragg'd on my life of pilgrimage 
And penitence upon the hated shores 
I else had left for ever. Come with me, 
And I will teach thee there is healing in 
The wounds which friendship gives. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene II. 

The Scene changes to the Interior oj the 
Castle. An apartment is discovered, in 
which there is much appearance of pre- 
sent poverty, mixed with some relics of 
former grandeur. On the wall hangs, 
amongst other things, a suit of ancient 
armour; by the table is a covered basket ; 
behind, and concealed by it, the carcass 






THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



527 



of a roe-deer. There is a small latticed- 
window, which, appearing to perforate 
a wall of great thickness, is supposed to 
look out towards the drawbridge. lit is 
in the shape of a loop-hole for musketry; 
and, as is not unusual in old buildings, 
is placed so high up in the wall, that it 
is only approached by five or six narrow 
stone steps. 

Eleanor, the wife ^/Oswald o/Devor- 
goil, Flora and Katleen, her 
Daughter and Niece, are discovered at 
work. The former spins, the latter are 
embroidering. Eleanor quits her own 
labour to examine the manner in which 
Flora is executing her task, and shakes 
her head as if dissatisfied. 

Ele. Fy on it, Flora! — this botch' d 

work of thine 
Shows that thy mind is distant from thy 

task. 
The finest tracery of our old cathedral 
Had not a richer, freer, bolder pattern, 
Than Flora once could trace. Thy 

thoughts are wandering. 
Flo. They're with my father. Broad 

upon the lake 
The evening sun sunk down ; huge piles of 

clouds, 
Crimson and sable, rose upon his disk, 
And quench'd him ere his setting, like 

some champion 
In his last conflict, losing all his glory. 
Sure signals those of storm. And if my 

father 

Be on his homeward road 

Ele. But that he will not. 

Baron of Devorgoil, this day at least 
He banquets with the nobles — who, the 

next, 
Would scarce vouchsafe an alms to save 

his household 
From want or famine. Thanks to a kind 

friend, 
For one brief space we shall not need their 

aid. 
Flo. {joyfully). What! knew you then 

his gift? 
How silly I that would, yet durst not tell it ! 
I fear my father will condemn us both, 
That easily accepted such a present. 
Kat. Now, here's the game a bystander 

sees better 
Than those who play it. — My good aunt is 

pondering 



On the good cheer which Gullcrammer has 

sent us, 
And Flora thinks upon the forest venison. 

[Aside. 
Ele. {to Flo.) Thy father need not 

know on't — 'tis a boon 
Comes timely, when frugality, — nay, ab- 
stinence, 
Might scarce avail us longer. I had hoped 
Ere now a visit from the youthful donor, 
That we might thank his bounty; and 

perhaps 
My Flora thought the same, when Sun- 
day's kerchief 
And the best kirtle were sought out, and 

donn'd 
To grace a work-day evening. 

Flo. Nay, mother, that is judging all 

too close ! 
My work-day gown was torn — my kerchief 

sullied ; 
And thus — But, think you, will the gallant 

come? 
Ele. He will, for with these dainties 

came a message 
From gentle Master Gullcrammer, to in- 

timate 

Flo. {greatly disappointed). Gullcram- 
mer? 
Kat. There burst the bubble — down 

fell house of cards, 
And cousin's like to cry for't ! [Aside. 

Ele. Gullcrammer ! ay, Gullcrammer ; 

thou scorn'st not at him? 
'Twere something short of wisdom in a 

maiden, 
Who, like the poor bat in the Grecian 

fable, 
Hovers betwixt two classes in the world, 
And is disclaim'd by both the mouse and 

bird. 
Rat. I am the poor mouse, 

And may go creep into what hole I list, 
And no one heed me — Yet I'll waste a word 
Of counsel on my betters. — Kind my aunt, 
And you, my gentle cousin, were't not 

better 
We thought of dressing this same gear for 

supper, 
Than quarrelling about the worthless 

donor? 
Ele. Peace, minx ! 
Flo. Thou hast no feeling, cousin 

Katleen. 
Kat. So ! I have brought them both on 

my poor shoulders : 



So meddling peace-makers are still re- 
warded : 
E'en let them to't again, and fight it out. 
Flo. Mother, were I disclaim'd of every 

class, 
I would not therefore so disclaim myself, 
As even a passing thought of scorn to 

waste 
On cloddish Gullcrammer. 

Ele. List to me, love, and let adversity 
Incline thine ear to wisdom. Look around 

thee — 
Of the gay youths who boast a noble name, 
Which will incline to wed a dowerless 

damsel? 
And of the yeomanry, who, think'st thou, 

Flora, 
Would ask to share the labours of his farm 
An high-born beggar? — This young man 

is modest 

Flo. Silly, good mother; sheepish, if 

you will it. 
Ele. E'en call it what you list — the 

softer temper, 
The fitter to endure the bitter sallies 
Of one whose wit is all too sharp for mine. 
Flo. Mother, you cannot mean it as 

you say ; 
You cannot bid me prize conceited folly? 
Ele. Content thee, child — each lot has 

its own blessings. 
This youth, with his plain-dealing honest 

suit, 
Proffers thee quiet, peace, and competence, 
Redemption from a home, o'er which fell 

Fate 
Stoops like a falcon.— Oh ! if thou couldst 

choose 
(As no such choice is given) 'twixt such a 

mate 
And some proud noble ! — Who, in sober 

judgment, 
Would like to navigate the heady river, 
Dashing in fury from its parent mountain, 
More than the waters of the quiet lake? 
Kat. Now can I hold no longer— Lake, 

good aunt? 
Nay, in the name of truth, say mill-pond, 

horse-pond ; 
Or if there be a pond more miry, 
More sluggish, mean-derived, and base 

than either, 
Be such Gullcrammer's emblem— and his 

portion ! 
Flo. I would that he or I were in our 

grave, 



Rather than thus his suit should goad me! 

— Mother, 
Flora of Devorgoil, though low in fortunes, 
Is still too high in mind to join her name 
With such a base-born churl as Gullcram- 
mer. 
Ele. You are trim maidens both ! 

(To Flora.) Have you forgotten, 
Or did you mean to call to my remem- 
brance . 
Thy father chose a wife of peasant blood? 
Flo. Will you speak thus to me, or 

think the stream 
Can mock the fountain it derives its source 

from ? 
My venerated mother ! — in that name 
Lies all on earth a child should chiefest 

honour ; 
And with that name to mix reproach or 

taunt, 
Were only short of blasphemy to Heaven. 
Ele. Then listen, Flora, to that mother's 

counsel, 
Or rather profit by that mother's fate. 
Your father's fortunes were but bent, not 

broken, 
Until he listen'd to his rash affection. 
Means were afforded to redeem his house, 
Ample and large — the hand of a rich 

heiress 
Awaited, almost courted, his acceptance ; 
He saw my beauty— such it then was 

call'd, 
Or such at least he thought it— the 

adther'd bush, 
Whate'er it now may seem, had blossoms 

then, — 
And he forsook the proud and wealthy 

heiress, 
To wed with me and ruin — 

KAT. (aside). The more fool, 

Say I, apart, the peasant maiden then, 
Who might have chose a mate from her 

own hamlet. 
Ele. Friends fell off, 
And to his own resources, his own coun- 
sels, 
Abandon' d, as they said, the thoughtless 

prodigal, 
Who had exchanged rank, riches, pomp, 

and honour, 
For the mean beauties of a cottage 

maid. 
Flo. It was done like my father, 
Who scorn' d to sell what wealth can 

never buy — 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



529 



True love and free affections 
loves you ! 



And he 



If you have suffer'd in a weary world, 
Your sorrows have been jointly borne, and 

love 
Has made the load sit lighter. 

Ele. Ay, but a misplaced match hath 

that deep curse in't, 
That can embitter e'en the purest streams 
Of true affection. Thou hast seen me 

seek, 
With the strict caution early habits taught 

me, 
To match our wants and means — hast 

seen thy father, 
With aristocracy's high brow of scorn, 
Spurn at economy, the cottage virtue, 
As best befitting her whose sires were 

peasants : 
Nor can I, when I see my lineage scorn'd, 
Always conceal in what contempt I hold 
The fancied claims of rank he clings to 

fondly. 
Flo. Why will you do so 1 ^ — well you 

know it chafes him. 
Ele. Flora, thy mother is but mortal 

woman, 
Nor can at all times check an eager 

tongue. 
Kat. {aside). That's no new tidings to 

her niece and daughter. 
Ele. O may' st thou never know the 

spited feelings 
That gender discord in adversity 
Betwixt the dearest friends and truest 

lovers ! 
In the chill damping gale of poverty, 
If Love's lamp go not out, it gleams but 

palely, 
And twinkles in the socket. 

Flo. But tenderness can screen it with 

her veil, 
Till it revive again. By gentleness, good 

mother, 
How oft I've seen you soothe my father's 

mood ! 
Kat. Now there speak youthful hope 

and fantasy ! [A side. 

Ele. That is an easier task in youth 

than age; 
Our temper hardens, and our charms 

decay, 
And both are needed in that art of 

soothing. 
Kat. And there speaks sad experience. 
[Aside. 



» Ele. Besides, since that our state was 

utter desperate, 
Darker his brow, more dangerous grow 

his words : 
Fain would I snatch thee from the woe 

and wrath 
Which darken'd long my life, and soon 
must end it. 

[A knocking- without; ELEANOR 
shows alarm. 
It was thy father's knock,— haste to the 
gate. 

[Exeunt Flora and Katleen. 
What can have happ'd ? — he thought to 

stay the night. 
This gear must not be seen. 

[As she is about to remove the bas- 
ket, she sees the body of the roe- 
deer. 
What have we here ? a roe-deer ! — as I 

fear it, 
This was the gift of which poor Flora 
thought. 

The young and handsome hunter But 

time presses. 

[She removes the basket and the roe 
into a closet. As she has done — 

Enter Oswald of Devorgoil, Flora, 
and Katleen. 
[He is dressed in a scarlet cloak, 
which should seem worn and old 
— a head-piece, and old-fashioned 
sword — the rest of his dress that 
of a peasant. His countenance 
and manner should express the 
moody and irritable haughtiness 
of a proud man involved in 
cala?nity, and who has been ex- 
posed to recent insult. 
Osw. (addressing his wife) — 
The sun hath set — why is the drawbridge 
lower'd ? 
Ele. The counterpoise has fail'd, and 
Flora's strength, 
Katleen's, and mine united, could not 
raise it. 
Osw. Flora and thou ! a goodly garri- 
son 
To hold a castle, which, if fame says true, 
Once foil'd the King of Norse and all his 
rovers. 
Ele. It might be so in ancient times, 

but now 

Osw. A herd of deer might storm proud 
Devorgoil. 

34 



A 



53o 



SCOTTS POETICAL WORKS. 



KAT. [aside to Flo.) You, Flora, know 

full well, one deer already 
Has enter'd at the breach ; and, what is 

worse, 
The escort is not yet march'd off, for 

Blackthorn 
Is still within the castle. 
Flo. In heaven's name, rid him out 

on't, ere my father 
Discovers he is here ! Why went he not. 

before ? 
Kat. Because I staid him on some 

little business ; 
I had a plan to scare^ poor paltry Gull- 
crammer 
Out of his paltry wits. 

Flo. Well, haste ye now 

And try to get him off. 

Kat. I will not promise that. 

I would not turn an honest hunter's dog, 
So well I love the woodcraft, out of shelter 
In such a night as this, far less his master : 
But I'll do this,— I'll try to hide him for 

you. 
Osw. [whom his wife has assisted to 

take offjiis cloak and feathered cap) — 
Ay, take them off, and bring my peasant's 

bonnet 
And peasant's plaid — I'll noble it no 

further. 
Let them erase my name from honour's 

lists, 
And drag my scutcheon at their horses' 

heels ; 
I have deserved it all, for I am poor, 
And poverty hath neither right of birth, 
Nor rank, relation, claim, nor privilege, 
To match a new-coin'd viscount, whose 

good-grandsire, 
The lord be with him, was a careful 

skipper, 
And steer'd his paltry skiff 'twixt Leith 

and Campvere — 
Marry, sir, he could buy Geneva cheap, 
And knew the coast by moonlight. 

Flo. Mean you the Viscount Ellon- 

dale, my father? 
What strife has been between you ? 

Osw. O, a trifle ! 

Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 

about ; — 
Precedence is a toy — a superstition 
About a table's end, joint-stool, and 

trencher. 
Something was once thought due to long 

descent, 



And something to Galwegia's oldest 
baron, — 

But let that pass— a dream of the old time. 
Ele. It is indeed a dream. 
Osw. {turning upon her rather 
quickly) — 

Ha ! said ye ? — let me hear these words 
more plain. 
Ele. Alas ! they are but echoes of 
your own. 

Match'd with the real woes that hover 
o'er us, 

What are the idle visions of precedence, 

But, as you term them, dreams, and toys, 
and trifles, 

Not worth a wise man's thinking twice 
upon? 

Osw. Ay, 'twas for you I framed that 
consolation, 

The true philosophy of clouted shoe 

And linsey-woolsey kirtle. I know, that 
■*•' minds 

Of nobler stamp receive no dearer motive 

Than what is link'd with honour. Ribands, 
tassels, 

Which are but shreds of silk and spangled 
tinsel — 

The right of place, which in itself is mo- 
mentary — 

A word, which is but air — may in them- 
selves, 

And to the nobler file, be steep'd so 
- richly 

In that elixir, honour, that the lack 

Of things so very trivial in themselves 

Shall be misfortune. One shall seek for 
them 

O'er the wild waves — one in the deadly 
•breach 

And battle's headlong front — one in the 
paths 

Of midnight study, — and, in gaining these 

Emblems of honour, each will hold him- 
self 

Repaid for all his labours, deeds, and 
dangers. 

What then should he think, knowing them 
his own, 

Who sees what warriors and what sages 
toil for, 

The formal and establish' d marks of 
honour, 

Usurp'd from him by upstart insolence ? 
Ele. {who has listened to the last speech 
with some impatience) — 

This is but empty declamation, Oswald , 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



531 



The fragments left at yonder full-spread 

banquet, 
Nay, even the poorest crust swept from 

the table, 
Ought to be far more precious to a father, 
Whose family lacks food, than the vain 

boast, 
He sate at the board-head. 
Osw. Thou'lt drive me frantic !— I will 
tell thee, woman — 
Yet why to thee ? There is another ear 
Which that tale better suits, and he shall 
hear it. 

{Looks at his sword, which he has 
unbuckled, and addresses the rest 
of the speech to it. 
Yes, trusty friend, my father knew thy 

worth, 
And often proved it— often told me of it. 
Though thou and I be now held lightly of, 
And want the gilded hatchments of the 

time, 
I think we both may prove true metal still. 
'Tis thou shalt tell this story, right this 

wrong : 
Rest thou till time is fitting. 

[Hangs up the sword. 

[The Women look at each other 

with anxiety during this speech, 

which they partly overhear. They 

both approach Oswald. 

Ele. Oswald, my dearest husband ! 
Flo. My dear father ! 

Osw. Peace, both !— -we speak no more 
of this. I go 
To heave the draw-bridge up. {Exit. 

Katleen mounts the steps towards the 
loop-hole, looks out, and speaks. 

Kat. The storm is gathering fast ; 

broad, heavy drops 
Fall plashing on the bosom of the lake, 
And dash its inky surface into circles ; 
The distant hills are hid in wreaths of 

darkness. 
'Twill be a fearful night. 

Oswald re-enters, and throws himself 
into a seat. 

Ele. More dark and dreadful 

Than is our destiny, it cannot be. 
Osw. {to Flo.) Such is Heaven's will- 
it is our part to bear it. 
We're warranted, my child, from ancient 
story 



And blessed writ, to say, that song assuages 
The gloomy cares that prey upon our reason, 
And wake a strife betwixt ourbetter feelings 
And the fierce dictates of the headlong 

passions. 
Sing, then, my love ; for if a voice have 

influence 
To mediate peace betwixt me and my 

destiny, 
Flora, it must be thine. 
Flo. My best to please you ! 

SONG. 
When the tempest's at the loudest, 

On its gale the eagle rides ; 
When the ocean rolls the proudest, 

Through the foam the sea-bird glides — 
All the range of wind and sea 
Is subdued by constancy. 

Gnawing want and sickness pining, 

All the ills that men endure ; 
Each their various pangs combining, 

Constancy can find a cure — 
Pain, and Fear, and Poverty, 
Are subdued by constancy. 

Bar me from each wonted pleasure, 
Make me abject, mean, and poor ; ' 

Heap on insults without measure, 
Chain me to a dungeon floor — 

I'll be happy, rich, and free, 

If endow'd with constancy. 

ACT II. -Scene I. 

A Chamber in a distant part of the Castle. 
A large Window i?i the flat scene, sup' 
posed to look on the Lake, zvhich is 
occasionally illuminated by lightning. 
There is a couch-bed in the room, and 
an antiqzte cabinet. 

Enter Katleen, introducing Black- 
thorn. 

Kat. This was the destined scene of 
action, Blackthorn, 
And here our properties. But all in vain, 
For of Gullcrammer we'll see nought to- 
night, 
Except the dainties that I told you of. 
Bla. O, if he's left that same hog's face 
and sausages, 
He will try back upon them, never fear it, 
The cur will open on the trail of bacon, 
Like my old brach-hound. 
Kat. And should that hap, we'll play 
our comedy,— 



_L 



532 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Shall we not, Blackthorn ? Thou shalt be 

Owlspiegle 

Bla. And who may that hard-named 

person be ? 
Kat. I've told you nine times over. 
Bla. Yes, pretty Katleen, but my eyes 

were busy 
In looking at you all the time you were 

talking ; 
And so I lost the tale. 

Kat. Then shut your eyes, and let your 

goodly ears 
Do their good office. 

Bla. . That were too hard penance. 
Tell but thy tale once more, and I will 

hearken 
As if I were thrown out, and listening for 
My blood-hound's distant bay. 

Kat A civil simile! 

Then, for the tenth time, and the last, — 

be told, 
Owlspiegle was of old the wicked barber 
To Erick, wicked Lord of Devorgoil. 
Bla. The chief who drown'd his cap- 
tives in the Solway ? 
We all have heard of him. 

Kat. A hermit hoar, a venerable man — 
So goes the legend— came to wake repent- 
ance 
In the fierce lord, and tax'd him with his 

guilt ; 
But he, heart-harden'd, turn'd into derision 
The man of heaven, and, as his dignity 
Consisted much in a long reverend beard, 
Which reach'd his girdle, Erick caused his 

barber, 
This same Owlspiegle, violate its honours 
With sacrilegious razor, and clip his hair 
After the fashion of a roguish fool. 

Bla. This was reversing of our ancient 

proverb, 
And shaving for the devil's, not for God's 

sake. 
Kat. True, most grave Blackthorn; 

and in punishment 
Of this foul act of scorn, the barber's ghost 
Is said to have no resting after death, 
But haunts these halls, and .chiefly this 

same chamber, 
Where the profanity was acted, trimming 
And clipping all such guests as sleep 

within it. 
Such is at least the tale our elders tell, 
With many others, of this haunted castle. 
Bla. And you would have me take this 

shape of Owlspiegle, 



And trim the wise Melchisedek! — I wonnot. 
Kat. You will not ! 
Bla. No — unless you bear 

a part. 
Kat. What! can you not alone play 

such a farce ? 
Bla. Not I— I'm dull. Besides, we 
foresters 
Still hunt our game in couples. Look 

you, Katleen, 
We danced at Shrovetide— then you were 

my partner ; 
We sung at Christmas —you kept time with 

me ; 
And if we go a mumming in this business, 
By heaven, you must be one, or Master 
Gullerammer 

Is like to rest unshaven 

Kat. Why, you fool, 

What end can this serve ? 
Bla. Nay, I know 

not, I. 
But if we keep this wont of being partners, 
Why, use makes perfect — who knows what 
may happen ? 
Kat. Thou art a foolish patch— But 
sing our carol, 
As I have alter'd it, with some few words 

To suit the characters, and I will bear 

[Gives a paper. 
Bla. Part in the gambol. I'll go study 
quickly. 
Is there no other ghost, then, haunts the 

castle, 
But this same barber shave-a-penny goblin? 
I thought they glanced in every beam of 

moonshine, 
As frequent as a bat. 

Kat. I've heard my aunt's high hus- 
band tell of prophecies, 
And fates impending o'er the house of 

Devorgoil ; 
Legends first coin'd by ancient superstition, 
And render'd current by credulity 
And pride of lineage. Five years have I 

dwelt, 
And ne'er saw anything more mischievous 
Than what I am myself. 

Bla. And that is quite enough, I war- 
rant you. 
But, stay, where shall I find a dress 
To play this— what d' ye call him — Owl- 
spiegle ? 
KAT. {takes dresses out of the cabinet). 
Why, there are his own clothes, 
Preserved with other trumpery of the sort, 



I 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



533 



For we've kept nought but what is good 
for nought. 

[She drops a cap as she draws out 
the clothes. Blackthorn lifts it, 
and gives it to her. 

Nay, keep it for thy pains— it is a cox- 
comb, — 

So call'd in ancient times, in ours a fool's 
cap, — 

For you must know they kept a Fool at 
Devorgoil 

In former days; but now are well con- 
tented 

To play the fool themselves, to save ex- 
penses. 

Yet give it me, I'll find a worthy use for 't. 

I'll take this page's dress, to play the page 

Cockledemoy, who waits on ghostly Owl- 
spiegle ; 

And yet 'tis needless, too, for Gullcrammer 

Will scarce be here to-night. 

Bla. I tell you that he will— I will up- 
hold 

His plighted faith and true allegiance 

Unto a sows'd sow's face and sausages, 

And such the dainties that you say he sent 
you, 

Against all other likings whatsoever, 

Except a certain sneaking of affection, 

Which makes some folks I know of play 
the fool, 

To please some other folks. 

Kat. Well, I do hope he'll come. 
There's first a chance 

He will be cudgell'd by my noble uncle — 

I cry his mercy — by my good aunt's hus- 
band, 

Who did vow vengeance, knowing nought 
of him 

But by report, and by a limping sonnet 

Which he had fashion'd to my cousin's 
glory, 

And forwarded by blind Tom Long the 
carrier ; 

So there's the chance, first of a hearty 
beating, 

Which failing, we've this after-plot of 
vengeance. 
Bla. Kind damsel, how considerate 
and merciful ! 

But how shall we get off, our parts being 
play'd ? 
Kat. For that we are well fitted: — 
here's a trap-door 

Sinks with a counterpoise — you shall go 
that way. 



I'll make my exit yonder — 'neath the 

window, 
A balcony communicates with the tower 
That overhangs the lake. 

Bla. 'Tvvere a rare place, this house of 
Devorgoil, 
To play at hide-and-seek in— shall we try, 
One day, my pretty Katleen? 

Kat. Hands off, rude ranger ! I'm no 
managed hawk 
To stoop to lure of yours. — But bear you 

gallantly ; 
This Gullcrammer hath vex'd my cousin 

much, — 
I fain would have some vengeance. 
Bla. I'll bear my part with glee; — he 
spoke irreverently 
Of practice at a mark ! 

Kat. That cries for vengeance. 

But I must go — I hear my aunt's shrill 

voice ! 
My cousin and her father will scream next. 
Ele. (at a distance) . Katleen ! Kat- 
leen! 
Bla. Hark to old Sweetlips. 
Away with you before the full cry open — 
But stay, what have you there? 

Kat. (with a bundle she has taken from 
the wardrobe) — 
My dress, my page's dress — let it alone. 
Bla. Your tiring-room is not, I hope, 
far distant ; 
You 're inexperienced in these new habili- 
ments — 
I am most ready to assist your toilet. 
Kat. Out, you great ass! was ever 
such a fool ! [Runs off. 

Bla. (sings). 

O, Robin Hood was a bowman good, 
And a bowman good was he, 

And he met with a maiden in merry Sher- 
wood , 
All under the greenwood tree. 

Now give me a kiss, quoth bold Robin 
Hood, 
Now give me a kiss, said he. 
For there never came maid into merry 
Sherwood, 
But she paid the forester's fee. 

I've coursed this twelvemonth this sly puss, 

young Katleen, 
And she has dodged me, turn'd beneath 

my nose, 
And flung me out a score of yards at once ; 



534 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



If this same gear fadge right, I'll cote and 
mouth her, 

And then ! whoop ! dead ! dead ! dead ! — 
She is the metal 

To make a woodman's wife of ! ■ 

[Pauses a moment. 

Well — I can find a hare upon her form 

With any man in Nithsdaie — stalk a 
deer, 

Run Reynard to the earth for all his dou- 
bles, 

Reclaim a haggard hawk that's wild and 
wayward, 

Can bait a wild cat,— sure the devil's in't 

But I can match a woman— I'll to study. 
[Sits down on the couch to exam- 
ine the paper. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to the inhabited apartment 
of the Castle, as in the last Scene of the 
preceding Act. A fire is kindled, by 
which Oswald sits in an attitude of 
deep a?id melancholy thought, without 
paying attention to what passes around 
him. Eleanor is busy in covering a 
table; Flora goes out and re-enters, as 
if busied in the kitchen. There should 
be some by-play — the Women whispering 
together, and watching the state of Os- 
wald ; then separating and seeking to 
avoid his observation, when he casually 
raises his head and drops it again. 
This must be left to taste and manage- 
ment. The Women, in the first part of 
the scene, talk apart, and as if fearful 
of being overheard; the by-play of stop- 
ping occasionally, and attending to 
Oswald's movements, will give live- 
liness to the Scene. 

Ele. Is all prepared? 
Flo. Ay ; but I doubt the issue 

Will give my sire less pleasure than you 

hope for. 
Ele. Tush, maid — I know thy father's 

humour better. 
He was high-bred in gentle luxuries ; 
And when our griefs began, I've wept 

apart, 
While lordly cheer and high-fill'd cups of 

wine 
Were blinding him against the woe. to 

come. 
He has turn'd his back upon a princely 

banquet ; 



We will not spread his board— this night 

at least, 
Since chance hath better furnish'd — with 

dry bread, 
And water from the well. 

Enter Katleen, and hears the last speech. 

K.AT. (aside). Considerate aunt! she 
deems that a good supper 
Were not a thing indifferent even to him 
Who is to hang to-morrow. Since she 

thinks so, 
We must take care the venison has due 

honour — 
So much I owe the sturdy knave, Lance 
Blackthorn. 
Flo. Mother, alas! when Grief turns 
reveller, 
Despair is cup-bearer. What shall hap 
to-morrow? 
Ele. I have learn'd carelessness from 
fruitless care. 
Too long I've watch'd to-morrow ; let it 

come 
And cater for itself— Thou hear'st the 
thunder. [Low and distant thunder. 
This is a gloomy night — within, alas ! 

[Looking at her husband. 
Still gloomier and more threatening — Let 

us use 
Whatever means we have to drive it o'er, 
And leave to Heaven to-morrow. Trust 

me, Flora, 
'Tis the philosophy of desperate want 
To match itself but with the present evil, 
And face one grief at once. 
Away! I wish thineaid, and not thy counsel. 
[As Flora is about to go off, 
Gtjllcrammer's voice is heard 
behind the flat scene, as if from 
the drawbridge. 
Gul. (behind). Hillo— hillo— hilloa— 
hoa — hoa ! 
[Oswald raises himself aiid list- 
ens ; Eleanor goes up the steps 
and opens the window at the 
loop-hole : Gtjllcrammer's voice 
is then heard more distinctly. 
Gtjl. Kind Lady Devorgoil— sweet Mis- 
tress Flora! — 
The night grows fearful, I have lost my way, 
And wander'd till the road turn'd round 

with me, 
And brought me back. For Heavens 
sake, give me shelter ! 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



535 



Kat. (aside). Now, as I live, the voice 

of Gullcrammer ! 
Now shall our gambol be play'd off with 

spirit ; . 
I'll swear I am the only one to whom 
That screech-owl whoop was e'er accept- 
able. 
Osw. What bawling knave is this, that 

takes our dwelling 
For some hedge-inn, the haunt of lated 

drunkards? 
Ele. What shall I say?— Go, Kat- 

leen, speak to him. 
KAT. (aside). The game is in my hands 

— I will say something 
Will fret the Baron's pride — and then he 

enters. 
(She speaks from the window) — Good sir, 

be patient ! 
We are poor folks— it is but six Scotch 

miles 
To the next borough town, where your 

Reverence 
May be accommodated to your wants ; 
We are poor folks, an 't please your Re- 
verence, 
And keep a narrow household — there's no 

track 

To lead your steps astray 

Gul. Nor none to lead them right — 

You kill me, lady, 
If you deny me harbour. To budge from 

hence, 
And in my weary plight, were sudden 

death, 
Interment, funeral-sermon, tombstone, 

epitaph. 
Osw. Who's he that is thus clamorous 

without? 
(To Ele.) Thou know'st him? 
Ele. (confused). I know him? — No — 

yes — 'tis a worthy clergyman, 
Benighted on his way ; — but think not of 

him. 
Kat. The morn will rise when that the 

tempest's past, 
And if he miss the marsh, and can avoid 
The crags upon the left, the road is plain. 
Osw. Then this is all your piety ! — to 

leave 
One whom the holy duties of his office 
Have summon'd over moor and wilder- 
ness, 
To pray beside some dying wretch's bed," 
Who (erring mortal) still would cleave to 

life, — 



Or wake some stubborn sinner to repent- 
ance, — 
To leave him, after offices like these, 
To choose his way in darkness 'twixt the 

marsh 
And dizzy precipice ? 
Ele. What can I do? 

Osw. Do what thou canst— the wealth- 
iest do no more ; 
And if so much, 'tis well. These crumb- 
ling walls, 
While yet they bear a roof, shall now, as 

ever, 
Give shelter to the wanderer. — Have we 

food? 
He shall partake it — Have we none? the 

fast 
Shall be accounted with the good man's 
merits 

And our misfortunes 

{He goes to the loop-hole while he 
speaks, and places himself there 
in room of his Wife, who comes 
down with reluctance. 
Gul. Without). Hillo — hoa — hoa! 
By my good faith, I cannot plod it farther ; 
The attempt were death. 

Osw. (speaks from the window) — Pa- 
tience, my friend, I come to lower 
the drawbridge. [Descends, and exit. 
Ele. O that the screaming bittern had 
his couch 
Where he deserves it, in the deepest marsh ! 
Kat. I would not give this sport for 
all the rent 
Of Devorgoil, when Devorgoil was richest ! 
(To Ele). But now you chided me, my 

dearest aunt, 
For wishing him a horse-pond for his por- 
tion? 
Ele. Yes, saucy girl ; but, an it please 
you, then 
He was not fretting me. If he had sense 

enough, 
And skill to bear him as some casual 

stranger, — 
But he is dull as earth, and every hint 
Is lost on him, as hail-shot on the cor- 
morant, 
Whose hide is proof except to musket- 
bullets ! 
Flo. (apart). And yet to such a one 
would my kind mother, 
Whose chiefest fault is loving me too 

fondly, 
Wed her poor daughter ? 



536 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Enter GULLCRAMMER, his dress damaged 
by the storm ; ELEANOR runs to meet 
him, in order to explain to him that she 
unshed him to behave as a stranger. 
GULLCRAMMER, mistaking her ap- 
proach for an invitation to familiarity, 
advances with the air of pedantic con- 
ceit belonging to his character, ivhen 
Oswald enters, — Eleanor recovers 
herself, and assumes an air of distance 
—GULLCRAMMER is confounded, and 
does not know what to make of it. 

Osw. The counterpoise has clean given 
way ; the bridge 
Must e'en remain unraised, and leave us 

open, 
For this night's course at least, to passing 

visitants. — 
What have we here ? — is this the reverend 
man ? 
\He takes up the candle, and sur- 
veys GULLCRAMMER, who strives 
to sustain the inspection with 
confdence, while fear obviously 
contends with conceit and desire 
to show himself to the best ad- 
vantage. 
Gul. Kind sir — or, good my lord — my 
band is ruffled, 
But yet 'twas fresh this morning. This 

fell shower 
Hath somewhat smirch'd my cloak, but 

you may note 
It rates five marks per yard ; my doublet 
Hath fairly 'scaped — 'tis three-piled taffeta. 
[Opens his cloak, and displays his 
doublet. 
Osw. A goodly inventory — Art thou a 

preacher ? 
Gul. Yea— I laud Heaven and good 

Saint Mungo for it. 
Osw. 'Tis the time's plague, when those 
that should weed follies 
Out of the common field, have their own 

minds 
O'errun with foppery — Envoys 'twixt 

heaven and earth, 
Example should with precept join, to 

show us 
How we may scorn the world with all its 
vanities. 
Gul. Nay, the high heavens forefend 
that I were vain 1 
When our learn'd Principal such sounding 
laud 



Gave to mine Essay on the hidden qualities 
Of the sulphuric mineral, I disclaim'd 
All self-exaltment. And {turning to the 

women) when at the dance, 
The lovely Saccharissa Kirkencroft, 
Daughter to Kirkencroft of Kirkencroft, 
Graced me with her soft hand, credit me, 

ladies, 
That still I felt myself a mortal man, 
Though beauty smiled on me. 

Osw. Come, sir, enough of this. 
That you're our guest to-night, thank the 

rough heavens, 
And all our worser fortunes ; be con- 
formable 
Unto my rules ; these are no Saccharissas 
To gild with compliments. There's in 

your profession, 
As the best grain will have its piles of 

chaff, 
A certain whiffler, who hath dared to bait 
A noble maiden with love tales and 

sonnets ; 
And if I meet him, his Geneva cap 
May scarce be proof to save his ass's ears. 
Kat. {aside). Umph — I am strongly 

tempted ; 
And yet I think I will be generous, 
And give his brains a chance to save his 

bones. 
Then there's more humour in our goblin 

plot, 
Than in a simple drubbing. 

Ele. {apart to Flo.) What shall we 

do ? If he discover him, 
He'll fling him out at window. 
Flo. My father's hint to keep himself 

unknown 
Is all too broad, I think, to be neglected. 
Ele. But yet the fool, if we produce 

his bounty, 
May claim the merit of presenting it ; 
And then we're but lost women for 

accepting 
A gift our needs made timely. 

Kat. Do not produce them. 

E'en let the fop go supperless to bed, 
And keep his bones whole. 

Osw. {to his Wife)— Hast thou aught 
To place before him ere he seek repose ? 
Ele. Alas ! too well you know our 

needful fare 
Is of the narrowest now, and knows no 

surplus. 
Osw. Shame us not with thy niggard 

housekeeping : 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



537 



He is a stranger — were it our last crust, 
And he the veriest coxcomb e'er wore 

taffeta, 
A pitch he's little short of — he must 

share it, 
Though all should want to-morrow. 
Gul. {partly overhearing what passes 
between them) — 
Nay, I am no lover of your sauced 

dainties- 
Plain food and plenty is my motto still. 
Your mountain air is bleak, and brings an 

appetite : 
A soused sow's face, now, to my modest 

thinking, 
Has ne'er a fellow. What think these fair 

ladies 
Of a sow's face and sausages? 

[Makes signs to ELEANOR. 
Flo. Plague on the vulgar hind, and 
on his courtesies ! 
The whole truth will come out ! 

Osw. What should they think, but that 
you're like to lack 
Your favourite dishes, sir, unless per- 
chance 
You bring such dainties with you. 

Gul. No, not with me ; not, indeed, 
Directly with me ; but — Aha ! fair ladies ! 
[Makes signs again. 
Kat. He'll draw the beating down — 
Were that the worst, 
Heaven's will be done ! [Aside. 
Osw. {apart). What can he mean? — 
this is the veriest dog-whelp — 
Still he's a stranger, and the latest act 
Of hospitality in this old mansion 
Shall not be sullied. 
Gul. Troth, sir, I think, under the 
ladies' favour, 
Without pretending skill in second-sight, 
Those of my cloth being seldom con- 
jurers 

,Osw. I'll take my Bible-oath that thou 

art none. [Aside. 

Gul. I do opine, still with the ladies' 

favour, 

That I could guess the nature of our 

supper : 
I do not say in such and such precedence 
The dishes will be placed — housewives, as 

you know, 
On such forms have their fancies ; but, I 
say still, 

That a sow's face and sausages 

Osw. Peace, sir ! 



O'er-driven jests (if this be one) are in- 
solent. 
Flo. [apart, seeing her mother uneasy) — 
The old saw still holds true — a churl's 

benefits, 
Sauced with his lack of feeling, sense, and 

courtesy, 
Savour like injuries. 

[A horn is winded without ; then a 
loud knocking at the gate. 
Leo. {without). Ope, for the sake of 
love and charity ! 

[Oswald goes to the loop-hole. 
Gul. Heaven's mercy ! should there 
come another stranger, 
And he half starved with wandering on the 

Voids, 
The sow's face boasts no substance, nor the 

sausages, 
To stand our reinforced attack! I judge, too, 
By this starved Baron's language, there's 

no hope 
Of a reserve of victuals. 

Flo. Go to the casement, cousin. 
Kat. Go yourself, 

And bid the gallant, who that bugle 

winded, 
Sleep in the storm-swept waste ; as meet 

for him 
As for Lance Blackthorn. — Come, I'll not 

distress you ; 
I'll get admittance for this second suitor, 
And we'll play out this gambol at cross 

purposes. 
But see, your father has prevented me. 
Osw. [seems to have spoken with those 
without, and answers) — 
Well, I will ope the door; one guest 

already, 
Driven by the storm, has claim'd my 

hospitality, 
And you, if you were fiends, were scarce 

less welcome 
To this my mouldering roof, than empty 

ignorance 
And rank conceit. I hasten to admit you. 

[Exit. 
Ele. [to Flo.) The tempest thickens. 
By that winded bugle, 
I guess the guest that next will honour 

us. — 
Little deceiver, that didst mock my 

troubles, 
'Tis now thy turn to fear ! 
Flo. Mother, if I knew less or more of 
this 



_L 



538 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Unthought-of and most perilous visitation, 
I would your wishes were fulfill'd on me, 
And I were wedded to a thing like yon. 
GUL. {approaching). Come, ladies, now 

you see the jest is threadbare. 
And you must own that same sow's face 

and sausages 



Re-enter OSWALD with LEONARD, sup- 
porting Bauldie Durward. Oswald 
takes a view of them, as formerly of 
Gullcrammer, then speaks— 

Osw. {to Leo.) By thy green cassock, 

hunting-spear, and bugle, 
I guess thou art a huntsman ? 

Leo. {bowing with respect) — 
A ranger of the neighbouring royal forest, 
Under the good Lord Nithsdale; hunts- 
man, therefore, 
In time of peace ; and when the land has 

war, 
To my best powers a soldier. 
Osw. Welcome, as either. I have 

loved the chase, 
And was a soldier once. — This aged man, 
What may he be ? 

Dur. {recoveri?ig his breath) — 
Is but a beggar, sir, an humble mendicant, 
Who feels it passing strange, that from 

this roof, 
Above all others, he should now crave 

shelter. 
Osw. Why so ? You're welcome both 

— only the word 
Warrants more courtesy than our present 

means 
Permit us to bestow. A huntsman and a 

soldier 
May be a prince's comrade, much more 

mine; 
And for a beggar — friend, there little 

lacks, 
Save that blue gown and badge, and 

clouted pouches, 
To make us comrades too ; then welcome 

both, 
And to a beggar's feast. I fear, brown 

bread, 
And water from the spring, will be the 

best on't; 
For we had cast to wend abroad this 

evening, 
And left our larder empty. 

Gul. Yet, if some kindly fairy, 

In our behalf, would search its hid 

recesses, — 



{Apart) We'll not go supperless now— 

we're three to one. — 
Still do I say, that a soused face and 

sausages 

Osw. {looks sternly at him, then at his 

wife) — 
There's something under this, but that 

the present 
Is not a time to question.— {To Ele.) 

Wife, my mood 
Is at such height of tide, that a turn'd 

feather 
Would make me frantic now, with mirth 

or fury ! 
Tempt me no more — but if thou hast the 

things 
This carrion crow so croaks for, bring 

them forth ; 
For, by my father's beard, if I stand 

caterer, 
'Twill be a fearful banquet ! 
Ele. Your pleasure be obey'd — Come 

aid me, Flora. [Exeunt. 

[During the following speeches, the 
Women place dishes on the table. 
Osw. {to Dur.) How did you lose your 

path? 
Dur. E'en when we thought to find it, 

a wild meteor 
Danced in the moss, and led our feet 

astray. — 
I give small credence to the tales of old, 
Of Friar's-lantern told, and Will-o'-Wisp, 
Else would I say, that some malicious 

demon 
Guided us in a round ; for to the moat, 
Which we had pass'd two hours since, 

were we led, 
And there the gleam flicker'd and disap- 
pear' d, 
Even on your drawbridge. I was so worn 

down, 
So broke with labouring through marsh 

and moor, 
That, wold I nold I, here my young con- 
ductor 
Would needs implore for entrance ; else, 

believe me, 
I had not troubled you. 
Osw. And why not, father? — have you 

e'er heard aught, 
Or of my house or me, that wanderers, 
Whom or their roving trade or sudden cir- 
cumstance 
Oblige to seek a shelter, should avoid 
The House of Devorgoil ? 




Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat. 

Bonny Dundee. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



539 



Dur. Sir, I am English born — 

Native of Cumberland. Enough is said 
Why I should shun those towers, whose 

lords were hostile 
To English blood, and unto Cumberland 
Most hostile and most fatal. 

Osw. Ay, father. Once my grandsire 
plough'd and harrow'd, 
And sow'd with salt, the streets of your 

fair towns : 
But what of that ? — you have the 'vantage 
now. 
Dur. True, Lord of Devorgoil, and 
well believe I, 
That not in vain we sought these towers 

to-night, 

So strangely guided, to behold their state. 

Osw. Ay, thou wouldst say, 'twas fit a 

Cumbrian beggar 

Should sit an equal guest in his proud halls, 

Whose fathers beggar'd Cumberland — 

Graybeard, let it be so, 
I'll not dispute it with thee. 

(To Leo. who was speaking to 
FLORA, but, on being surprised, 
occupied himself with the suit of 
armour) — 

What makest thou 
there, young man ? 
Leo. I marvell'd at this harness; it is 
larger 
Than arms of modern days. How richly 

carved 
With gold inlaid on steel — how close the 

rivets — 
How justly fit the joints! I think the 

gauntlet 
Would swallow twice my hand. 

[He is about to takedown somepart of 
the armour ; OSWALD interferes. 
Osw. Do not displace it. 

My grandsire, Erick, doubled human 

strength, 
And almost human size — and human 

knowledge, 
And human vice, and human virtue also, 
As storm or sunshine chanced to occupy 
His mental hemisphere. After a fatal deed, 
He hung his armour on the wall, forbid- 
ding 
It e'er should be ta'en down. There is a 

prophecy, 
That of itself 'twill fall, upon the night 
When, in the fiftieth year from his decease, 
Devorgoil's feast is full. This is the era ; 
But, as too well you see, no meet occasion 



Will do the downfall of the armour justice, 

Or grace it with a feast. There let it bide, 

Trying its strength with the old walls it 
hangs on, 

Which shall fall soonest. 

Dur. (looking at the trophy with a 
mixture of feeling) — 

Then there stem Erick's harness hangs 
untouch'd, 

Since his last fatal raid on Cumberland ! 
Osw. Ay, waste and want, and reck- 
lessness — a comrade 

Still yoked with waste and want — have 
stripp'd these walls 

Of every other trophy. Antler'd skulls, 

Whose branches vouch'd the tales old 
vassals told 

Of desperate chases — partisans and 
spears — 

Knights' barred helms and shields — the 
shafts and bows, 

Axes and breastplates, of the hardy yeo- 
manry — 

The banners of the vanquish'd — signs 
these arms 

Were not assumed in vain, have disap- 
pear^ ; 

Yes, one by one they all have disappear'd ; — 

And now Lord Erick's harness hangs alone, 

'Midst implements of vulgar husbandry 

And mean economy ; as some old warrior, 

Whom want hath made an inmate of an 
alms-house, 

Shows, mid the beggar'd spendthrifts, base 
mechanics, 

And bankrupt pedlars, with whom fate 
has mix'd him. 
Dur. Or rather like a pirate, whom the 
prison-house, 

Prime leveller next the grave, hath for the 
first time 

Mingled with peaceful captives, low in 
fortunes, 

But fair in innocence. 

Osw. (looking at DURWARD with sur- 
prise) — Friend, thou art bitter ! 
Dur. Plain truth, sir, like the vulgar 
copper coinage, 

Despised amongst the gentry, still finds 
value 

And currency with beggars. 

Osw. Be it so. 

I will not trench on the immunities 

Isoonmayclaim toshare. Thy features, too, 

Though weather-beaten, and thy strain of 
language, 



54° 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Relish of better days. Come hither, friend, 
[ They speak apart. 
And let me ask thee of thine occupation. 
[Leon AR d looks round, and, see- 
ing Oswald engaged with Dur- 

WARD, and GULLCRAMMER with 

Eleanor, approaches towards 
Flora, who must give him an 
opportunity of doing so, with ob- 
vious attention on .her part to 
give it the air of chance. The 
by-play here will rest with the 
Lady, who must engage the atten- 
tion of the audience by playing 
off a little female hypocrisy and 
simple coquetry. 

Leo. Flora 

Flo. Ay, gallant huntsman, may she 
deign to question 
Why Leonard came not at the appointed 

hour; 
Or why he came at midnight? 

Leo. Love has no certain loadstar, 
gentle Flora, 
And oft gives up the helm to wayward 

pilotage. 
To say the sooth — A beggar forced me 

hence, 
And Will-o'-wisp did guide us back again. 
Flo. Ay, ay, your beggar was the faded 
spectre 
Of Poverty, that sits upon the threshold 
Of these our ruin'd walls. I've been un- 
wise, 
Leonard, to let you speak so oft with me ; 
And you a fool to say what you have 

said. 
E'en let us here break short ; and, wise at 

length, 
Hold each our separate way through life's 
wide ocean. 
Leo. Nay, let us rather join our course 
together, 
And share the breeze or tempest, doubling 

joys, 
Relieving sorrows, warding evils off 
With mutual effort, or enduring them 
With mutual patience. 

Flo. This is but flattering counsel — 
sweet and baneful ; 
But mine had wholesome bitter in't. 
Kat. Ay, ay ; but like the sly apothe- 
cary, 
You'll be the last to take the bitter drug 
That you prescribe to others. 

[They whisper. ELEANOR ad- 



vances to interrupt them, fol- 
lowed by GULLCRAMMER. 
Ele. What, maid, no household cares? 
Leave to your elders 
The task of filling passing strangers' ears 
With the due notes of welcome. 

Gul. Be it thine, 

O, Mistress Flora, the more useful talent 
Of filling strangers' stomachs with sub- 
stantiate ; 
That is to say, — for learned commentators 
Do so expound substantiate in some 

places, — 
With a soused bacon-face and sausages. 
Flo. {apart). Would thou wert soused, 
intolerable pedant, 
Base, greedy, perverse, interrupting cox- 
comb ! 
Kat. Hush, coz, for we'll be well 
avenged on him, 
And ere this night goes o'er, else woman's 

wit 
Cannot o'ertake her wishes. 

[She proceeds to arrange seats. 
Oswald and Durward come 
forxvard in conversation. 
Osw. I like thine humour well. — So all 

men beg 

Dur. Yes — I can make it good by 
proof. Your soldier 
Begs for a leaf of laurel, and a line 
In the Gazette ; — he brandishes his sword 
To back his suit, and is a sturdy beggar. — 
The courtier begs a riband or a star, 
And, like our gentler mumpers, is pro- 
vided 
With false certificates of health and 

fortune 
Lost in the public service. — For your lover, 
Who begs a sigh, a smile, a lock of hair, 
A buskin-point, he maunds upon the pad, 
With the true cant of pure mendicity, 
" The smallest trifle to relieve a Christian, 
And if it like your ladyship ! " 

[In a begging tone. 
KAT. {apart). This is a cunxing knave, 
and feeds the humour 
Of my aunt's husband, for I must not say 
Mine honour'd uncle. I will try a ques- 
tion. — 
Your man of merit though, who serves 
the commonwealth, 

Nor asks for a requital ? 

[To Durward. 

Dur. Is a dumb beggar, 

And lets his actions speak like signs for him, 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



til 



Challenging double guerdon.— Now, I'll 

show 
How your true beggar has the fair advan- 
tage 
O'er all the tribes of cloak' d mendicity 
I have told over to you. — The soldier's 

laurel, 
The statesman's riband, and the lady's 

favour, 
Once won and gain'd, are not held worth 

a farthing 
By such as longest, loudest, canted for 

them ; 
Whereas your charitable halfpenny, 
Which is the scope of a true beggar's 

suit, 
Is worth two farthings, and, in times of 

plenty, 
Will buy a crust of bread. 

Flo. {interrupting him, and address- 
ing her father) — 
Sir, let me be a beggar with the time, 
And pray you come to supper. 
Ele. (to Oswald, apart). Must he sit 

with us ? [Looking at Durward. 
Osw. Ay, ay, what else— since we are 

beggars all ? 
When cloaks are ragged, sure their worth 

is equal, 
Whether at first they were of silk or 

woollen. 
Ele. Thou art scarce consistent. 
This day thou didst refuse a princely ban- 
quet, 
Because a new-made lord was placed 

above thee ; 

And now 

Osw. Wife, I have seen, at public exe- 
cutions, 
A wretch that could not brook the hand of 

violence 
Should push him from the scaffold, pluck 

up courage, 
And, with a desperate sort of cheerfulness, 
Take the fell plunge himself— 
Welcome then, beggars, to a beggar's 

feast ! 
GUL. (who has in the mean while seated 

himself) — 
But this is more.— A better countenance, — 
Fair fall the hands that soused it ! — than 

this hog's, 
Or prettier provender than these same 

sausages, 
(By what gOod friend sent hither, shall be 

nameless- 



Doubtless some youth whom love hath 
made profuse,) 

[Smiling significantly at ELEANOR 
and Flora.] 
No prince need wish to peck at. Long, I 

ween, 
Since that the nostrils of this house (by 

metaphor, 
I mean the chimneys) smell'd a steam so 

grateful. — 
By your good leave I cannot dally longer. 
[Helps himself. 
Osw. {places Durward above Gull- 
crammer). Meanwhile, sir, 
Please it your youthful learning to give 

place 
To gray hairs and to wisdom ; and, more- 
over, 

If you had tarried for the benediction 

GUL. (somewhat abashed). I said grace 

to myself. 
Osw. (fiot minding him)— And waited 
for the company of others, 
It had been better fashion. Time has been, 
I should have told a guest at Devorgoil, 
Bearing himself thus forward, he was 
saucy. 

[Heseats himself and helps the com- 
pany and himself in dumb-show. 
There should be a contrast betwixt 
the precision of his aristocratic 
civility, and the rude underbreed- 
ing of Gulcrammer. 
Osw. (having tasted the dish next him) 

— Why, this is venison, Eleanor! 
GUL. Eh ! What ! Let's see— (Pushes 
across Oswald and helps himself.) 
It may be venison — 
I'm sure 'tis not beef, veal, mutton, lamb, 

or pork, 
Eke am I sure, that be it what it will, 
It is not half so good as sausages, 
Or as a sow's face soused. 

Osw. Eleanor, whence all this ? 

Ele. Wait till to-morrow, 

You shall know all. It was a happy chance 
That furnish'd us to meet so many guests 

— (Fills wine). 
Try if your cup be not as richly garnish'd 
As is your trencher. 

Kat. (apart). My aunt adheres to the 
good cautious maxim 
Of ' ' Eat your pudding, friend, and hold 
your tongue." 
Osw. (tastes the wine), Jt is the grape 
of Bordeaux. 



542 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



Such dainties, once familiar to my board, 

Have been estranged from't long. 

\He again fills his glass, and con- 
tinues to speak as he holds it up. 

Fill round, my friends — here is a treacher- 
ous friend, now, 

Smiles in your face, yet seeks to steal the 
jewel, 

Which is distinction between man and 
brute — 

I [mean our reason ; this he does, and 
smiles. 

But are not all friends treacherous? One 
shall cross you 

Even in your dearest interests — one shall 
slander you — 

This steal your daughter, that defraud 
your purse ; 

But this gay flask of Bordeaux will but 
borrow 

Your sense of mortal sorrows for a season, 

And leave, instead, a gay delirium. 

Methinks my brain, unused to such gay 
visitants, 

The influence feels already ! — we will 
revel ! — 

Our banquet shall be loud ! — it is our last. 

Katleen, thy song. 

Kat. Not now, my lord — I mean to 
sing to-night 

For this same moderate, grave, and rever- 
end clergyman ; 

I'll keep my voice till then. 
Ele. Your round refusal shows but cot- 
tage breeding. 
Kat. Ay, my good aunt, for I was cot- 
tage-nurtured, 

And taught, I think, to prize my own wild 
will 

Above all sacrifice to compliment. 

Here is a huntsman — in his eyes I read it, 

He sings the martial song my uncle loves, 

What time fierce Claver'se with his Cava- 
liers, 

Abjuring the new change of government, 

Forcing his fearless way through timorous 
friends, 

And enemies as timorous, left the capital 

To rouse in James's cause the distant 
Highlands. 

Have you ne'er heard the song, my noble 
uncle? 
Osw. Have I not heard, wench? — It 
was I rode next him — 
Tis thirty summers since — rode by his 
rein : 



We marched on through the alarmed city, 
As sweeps the osprey through a flock of 

gulls, 
Who scream and flutter, but dare no re- 
sistance 
Against the bold sea-empress. They did 

murmur, 
The crowds before us, in their sullen wrath, 
And those whom we had pass'd, gathering 

fresh courage, 
Cried havoc in the rear— we minded them 
E'en as the brave bark minds the bursting 

billows, 
Which, yielding to her bows, burst on her 

sides, 
And ripple in her wake. — Sing me that 

strain, (To Leo.) 
And thou shalt have a meed I seldom 

tender, 
Because they're all I have to give — my 

thanks. 
Leo. Nay, if you'll bear with what I 

cannot help, 
A voice that's rough with hollowing to the 

hounds, 
I'll sing the song even as old Rowland 

taught me. 

SONG. 

Am, — '* The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee. 

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se 

who spoke, 
"Ere the King's crown shall fall, there 

are crowns to be broke : 
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and 

me, 
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, come fill up 

my can, 
Come saddle your horses, and call 

up your men ; 
Come open the West Port, and let 

me gang free, 
And it's room for the bonnets of 

bonny Dundee ! " 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the 

street, 
The bells are rung backward, the drums 

they are beat ; 
But the Provost, douce man, said, "Just 

e'en let him be, 
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil 

of Dundee." 

Come fill up my cup, &c. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



543 



As he rode down the sanctified bends of 

the Bow, 
Ilk carline was fly ting and shaking her pow ; 
But the young plants of grace they look'd 

couthie and slee, 
Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny 

Dundee ! 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass- 
market was cramm'd, 

As if half the West had set tryst to be 
hang'd ; 

There was spite in each look, there was 
fear in each e'e, 

As they watch'd for the bonnets of Bonny 
Dundee. 

Come fill up my cup, &c. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and 

had spears 
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers ; 
But they shrunk to close-heads, and the 

causeway was free, 
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

He spurr'd to the foot of the proud Castle 
rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gallantly 
spoke, 

" Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak 
twa words or three, 

For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dun- 
dee." 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

The Gordon demands of him which way 
he goes — 

"Where'er shall direct me the shade of 
Montrose ! 

Your Grace in short space shall hear tid- 
ings of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

"There are hills beyond Pentland, and 
lands beyond Forth, 

If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's 
chiefs in the North ; 

There are wild Duniewassals three thou- 
sand times three, 

Will cry hoigh / for the bonnet of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 



" There's brass on the target of barken'd 

bull-hide ; 
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles 

beside ; 
The brass shall be burnish'd, the steel 

shall flash free, 
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the 

rocks ! — 
Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the 

fox !— 
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of 

your glee, 
You have not seen the last of my bonnet 

and me !" 
Come fill up my cup, &c. 

He waved his proud hand, and the trum- 
pets were blown, 
The kettle-drums clash d, and the horse- 
men rode on, 
Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermis- 

ton's lee, 
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny 
Dundee. 
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my 

can, 
Come saddle the horses, and call up 

the men, 
Come open your gates, and let me 

gae free, 
For it's up with the bonnets of 
Bonny Dundee ! 

Ele. Katleen, do thou sing now. Thy 

uncle's cheerful ; 
We must not let his humour ebb again. 
Kat. But I'll do better, aunt, than if I 

sung, 
For Flora can sing blithe; so can this 

huntsman, 
As he has shown e'en now ; let them duet 

it. 
Osw. Well, huntsman, we must give to 

freakish maiden 
The freedom of her fancy. — Raise the 

carol, 
And Flora, if she can, will join the mea- 
sure. 

SONG. 

When friends are met o'er merry cheer, 
And lovely eyes are laughing near, 
And in the goblet's bosom clear 
The cares of day are drown'd ; 



544 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



Whenpunsare made, and bumpers quaff 'd, 
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft, 
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laugh'd, 

Then is our banquet crown'd, 
Ah gay, 

Then is our banquet crown'd. 
When glees are sung, and catches troll'd, 
And bashfulness grows bright and bold, 
And beauty is no longer cold, 

And age no longer dull ; 
When chimes are brief, and cocks do crow, 
To tell us it is time to go, 
Yet how to part we do not know, 

Then is our feast at full, 
Ah, gay, 

Then is our feast at full. 

Osw. (rises tvith the cup in his hand) — 
Devorgoil's feast is full — Drink to the 
pledge ! 

[A tremendous burst of thunder 
follows these words of the Song ; 
and the Lightning should seem 
to strike the suit of black Armour , 
which falls with a crash. All 
rise in surprise and fear except 
Gullcrammer, who tumbles 
over backwards, and lies still. 
Osw. That sounded like the judgment- 
peal — the roof 
Still trembles with the volley. 

Dur. Happy those, 

Who are prepared to meet such fearful 

summons. 
Leonard, what dost thou there ? 
Leo. (supporting Flo.) The duty of 
a man — 
Supporting innocence. Were it the final 

call, 
I were not misemploy'd, 
Osw. The armour of my grandsire hath 
fall'ii down, 
And old saws have spoke truth . — (Musing.) 

The fiftieth year — 
Devorgoil's feast at fullest ! What to 
think of it— — 
Leo. (lifting a scroll which had fallen 
with the armour) — 
This may inform us. — (Attempts to read 
the manuscript, shakes his head, and 
gives it to Oswald) — 
But not to eyes unlearn'd it tells its tidings. 
Osw. Hawks, hounds, and revelling 
consumed the hours 
I should have given to study. (Looks at 
the manuscript) 



These characters I spell not more than 
thou. 

They are not of our day, and, as I think, 

Not of our language. — Where's our 
scholar now, 

So forward at the banquet ? Is he laggard 

Upon a point of learning ? 
Leo. Here is the man of letter'd dig- 
nity, 

E'en in a piteous case. (Drags Gull- 
crammer forward) 
Osw. Art waking, craven ? Canst thou 
read this scroll ? 

Or art thou only learn'd in sousing swine's 
flesh, 

And prompt in eating it ? 

Gul. Eh — ah ! — oh — ho ! — Have you 
no better time 

To tax a man with riddles, than the 
moment 

When he scarce knows whether he's dead 
or living ? 
Osw. Confound the pedant ? — Can you 
read the scroll, 

Or can you not, sir? If you can, pronounce 

Its meaning speedily. 
Gul. Can I read it, quotha ! 

When at our learned University, 

I gain'd first premium for Hebrew learn- 
ing,— 

Which was a pound of high-dried Scottish 
snuff, 

And half a peck of onions, with a bushel 

Of curious oatmeal, — our learned Principal 

Did say, ' ' Melchisedek, thou canst do any 
thing ! " 

Now comes he with his paltry scroll of 
parchment, 

And, " Can you read it?"— After such 
affront, 

The point is, if I will. 

Osw. A point soon solved, 

Unless you choose to sleep among the 
frogs ; 

For look you, sir, there is the chamber 
window, — 

Beneath it lies the lake. 
Ele. Kind master Gullcrammer, be- 
ware my husband . 

He brooks no contradiction — 'tis his fault, 

And in his wrath he's dangerous. 

Gul. (looks at the scroll, and mutters as 
if reading) — 

Hashgaboth hotch-potch — 

A simple matter this to make a rout of— 

Ten rashersen bacon, mish-mash venison, 



■ 



Sausagian soused-face — Tis a simple 

catalogue 
Of our small supper — made by the grave 

sage 
Whose prescience knew this night that we 

should feast 
On venison, hash'd sow's face, and saus- 
ages, 
And hung his steel-coat for a supper bell. 
E'en let us to our provender again, 
For it is written, we shall finish it, 
And bless our stars the lightning left it us. 
Osw. This must be impudence or ignor- 
ance! 
The spirit of rough Erick stirs within me, 
And I will knock thy brains out if thou 

palterest ! 
Expound the scroll to me ! 

Gul. You're over-hasty ; 

And yet you may be right too — 'lis 

Samaritan, 
Now I look closer on' t, and I did take it 
For simple Hebrew. 

Dur. 'Tis Hebrew to a simpleton, 
That we see plainly, friend — Give me the 
scroll. 
Gul. Alas, good friend ! what would 

you do with it ? 
DUR. {takes it from him). 
My best to read it, sir — The character is 

Saxon, 
Used at no distant date within this dis- 
trict ; 
And thus the tenor runs— not in Samaritan, 
Nor simple Hebrew, but in wholesome 
English : — 
" Devorgoil, thy bright moon waneth, 
And the rust thy harness staineth ; 
Servile guests the banquet soil 
Of the once proud Devorgoil. 
But should Black Erick's armour fall, 
Look for guests shall scare you all ! 
They shall come ere peep of day, — 
Wake and watch, and hope and pray." 
Kat. {to Flo.) Here is fine foolery! 
An old wall shakes 
At a loud thunder-clap — down comes a suit 
Of ancient armour, when its wasted braces 
Were all too rotten to sustain its weight — 
A beggar cries out, Miracle ! — and your 

father, 
Weighing the importance of his name and 

lineage, 
Must needs believe the dotard ! 
Flo. Mock not, I pray you ■ this may 
be too serious. 



Kat. And if I live till morning, I will 
have 
The power to tell a better tale of wonder 
Wrought on wise Gullcrammer. I'll go 
prepare me. [Exit. 

Flo. I have not Katleen's spirit, yet I 
hate 
This Gullcrammer too heartily, to stop 
Any disgrace that's nasting towards him. 1 
Osw. {to whom the Beggar has been 
again reading the scroll). 
'Tis a strange prophecy! — The silver 

moon, 
Now waning sorely, is our ancient bear- 
ing- 
Strange and unfitting guests — 

Gul. [interrupting him). Ay, ay, the 

matter 

Is, as you say, all moonshine in the water. 

Osw. How mean you, sir? [threatening). 

Gul. To show that I can rhyme 

With yonder bluegown. Give me breath 

and time, 
I will maintain, in spite of his pretence, 
Mine exposition had the better sense — 
It spoke good victuals and increase of 

cheer ; 
And his, more guests to eat what we have 

here — 
An increment right needless. 

Osw. Get thee gone ! 

To kennel, hound ! 

Gul. The hound will have his bone. 

[Takes up the platter of meat, and a flask. 

Osw. Flora, show him his chamber — 

take him hence, 

Or, by the name I bear, I'll see his brains ! 

Gul. Ladies, good-night ! — I spare you, 

sir, the pains. 

[Exit, lighted by FLORA with a 
lamp. 
Osw. The owl is fled.— I'll not to bed 
to-night ; 
There is some change impending o'er this 

house, 
For good or ill. I would some holy man 
Were here, to counsel us what we should do ! 
Yon witless thin-faced gull is but a cassock 
Stuff 'd out with chaff and straw. 

Dur. {assuming an air of dignity) . I 
have been wont, 
In other days to point to erring mortals 
The rock which they should anchor on. 

[He holds up a Cross — the rest take 
a posture of devotion, and the 
Scene closes. 
35 



546 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



ACT III.— Scene I. 
A ruinous Anteroom in the Castle. 
Enter KATLEEN, fantastically dressed to 
play the character of Cockledemoy, with 
the visor in her hand. 

Kat. I've scarce had time to glance at 
my sweet person, 
Yet this much could I see, with half a 

glance, 
My elfish dress becomes me — I'll not 

mask me, 
Till I have seen Lance Blackthorn. Lance, 
I say ! {Calls. 

Blackthorn, make haste ! 
Enter Blackthorn, half dressed as 

Owlspiegle. 
Bla. Here am I— Blackthorn in the 
upper half, 
Much at your service ; but my nether parts 
Are goblinized and Owlspiegled. I had 

much ado 
To get these trankums on. I judge Lord 

Erick 
Kept no good house, and starved his 
quondam barber. 
Kat. Peace, ass, and hide you — Gull- 
crammer is coming ; 
He left the hall before, but then took fright, 
And e'en sneak'd back. The Lady Flora 

lights him — 
Trim occupation for her ladyship ! 
Had you seen Leonard, when she left the 

hall 
On such fine errand ! 

Bla. This Gullcrammer shall have a 
bob extraordinary 
For my good comrade's sake. — But tell 

me, Katleen, 
What dress is this of yours ? 
Kat. A page's, fool ! 

Bla. I am accounted no great scholar, 
But 'tis a page that I would fain peruse 
A little closer. {Approaches her. 

Kat. Put on your spectacles, 

And try if you can read it at this distance, 
For you shall come no nearer. 
Bla. But is there nothing, then, save 
rank imposture, 
In all these tales of goblinry at Devorgoil ? 
Kat. My aunt's grave lord thinks other- 
wise, supposing 
That his great name so interests the 

Heavens, 
That miracles must needs bespeak its fall. 



I would that I were in a lowly cottage, 
Beneath the greenwood, on its walls no 
armour 

To court the levin-bolt 

Bla. And a kind husband, Katleen, 
To ward such clangers as must needs come 

nigh.— 
My father's cottage stands so low and lone, 
That you would think it solitude itself ; 
The greenwood shields it from the northern 

blast, 
And, in the woodbine round its latticed 

casement, 
The linnet's sure to build the earliest nest 
in all the forest. 
Kat. Peace, you fool, — they come. 
[Flora lights Gullcrammer 
across the Stage. 
Kat. {when they have passed) —Away 
with you ! 
On with your cloak — be ready at the signal. 
Bla. And shall we talk of that same 
cottage, Katleen, 
At better leisure? I have much to say 
In favour of my cottage. 

Kat. If you will be talking, 

You know I can't prevent you. 

Bla. That's enough. 

{Aside.) I shall have leave, I see, to spell 

the page 
A little closer, when the due time comes. 

Scene II. 

Scene changes to Gullcrammer's sleeping 
Apartment. He enters, ushered in by 
Flora, w/io sets on the table a flask, 
with the ' 



Flo. A flask, in case your Reverence 

be athirsty ; 

A light, in case your Reverence be afear'd ; — 

And so, sweet slumber to your Reverence. 

Gul. Kind Mistress Flora, will you? — 

eh ! eh ! eh ! 
Flo. Will I what? 
Gul. Tarry a little? 
Flo. {smiling). Kind Master Gull- 
crammer, 
Howcan you askme aught so unbecoming? 
Gul. Oh, fie, fie, fie !— Believe me, 
Mistress Flora, 
'Tis not for that— but being guided 

through 
Such dreary galleries, stairs, and suites of 

rooms, 
To this same cubicle, I'm somewhat loth 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



547 



To bid adieu to pleasant company. 

Flo. A flattering compliment ! — In 

plain truth, you are frighten'd. 
Gul. What! frighten'd?— I — I— am 

not timorous. 
Flo. Perhaps you've heard this is our 
haunted chamber? 
But then it is our best — Your Reverence 

knows, 
That in all tales which turn upon a ghost, 
Your traveller belated has the luck 
To enjoy the haunted room — it is a rule : — 
To some it were a hardship, but to you, 

Who are a scholar, and not timorous 

Gul. I did not say I was not timorous, 
I said I was not temerarious. — 
I'll to the hall again. 

Flo. You'll do your pleasure, 

But you have somehow moved my father's 

anger, 
And you had better meet' our playful 

Owlspiegle — 
So is our goblin call'd — than face Lord 
Oswald. 
Gul. Owlspiegle?— 
It is an uncouth and outlandish name, 
And in mine ears sounds fiendish. 

Flo. Hush, hush, hush ! 
Perhaps he hears us now — (in a?i under 

tone) — A merry spirit ; 
None of your elves that pinch folks black 

and blue, 
For lack of cleanliness. 
» Gul. As for that, Mistress Flora, 
My taffeta doublet hath been duly brush'd, 
My shirt hebdomadal put on this morning. 
Flo. Why, you need fear no goblins. 
But this Owlspiegle 
Is of another class ; — yet has his frolics ; 
Cuts hair, trims beards, and plays amid 

his antics 
The office of a sinful mortal barber. 
Such is at least the rumour. 
Gul. He will not cut my clothes, or 
scar my face, 
Or draw my blood ? 

Flo. Enormities like these 

Were never charged against him. 

Gul. And, Mistress Flora, would you 
smile on me, 
If, prick'd by the fond hope of your ap- 
proval, 
I should endure this venture ? 

Flo. I do hope 

I shall have cause to smile. 
Gul. Well ! in that hope 



I will embrace the achievement for thy 

sake. [She is going. 

Yet, stay, stay, stay! — on second thoughts 

I will not — 
I've thought on it, and will the mortal 

cudgel 
Rather endure than face the ghostly razor ! 
Your crab-tree's tough but blunt, — your 

razor's polish'd, 
But, as the proverb goes, 'tis cruel sharp. 
I'll to thy father, and unto his pleasure 
Submit these destined shoulders. 

Flo. But you shall not — 

Believe me, sir, you shall not ; he is 

desperate, 
And better far be trimm'd by ghost or 

goblin, 
Than by my sire in anger ; — there are stores 
Of hidden treasure, too, and Heaven 

knows what, 
Buried among these ruins — you shall stay. 
[Apart.) And if indeed there be such 

sprite as Owlspiegle, 
And, lacking him, that thy fear plague 

thee not 
Worse than a goblin, I have miss'd my 

purpose, 
Which else stands good in either case. — 

Good-night, sir. 

[Exit, and double locks the door. 
Gul. Nay, hold ye, hold ! Nay, gentle 

Mistress Flora, 
Wherefore this ceremony? She haslock'd 

me in, 
And left me to the goblin ! — [Listening.) 

So, so, so ! 
I hear her light foot trip to such a distance, 
That I believe the castle's breadth divides 

me 
From human company. — I'm ill at ease — 
But if this citadel [Laying his hand on his 

stomach) were better victual'd, 
It would be better mann'd. 

[Sits down and drinks. 
She has a footstep light, and taper ankle. 
[Chuckles. 
Aha ! that ankle ! yet, confound it too, 
But for those charms Melchisedek had been 
Snug in his bed at Mucklewhame — I say, 
Confound her footstep, and her instep too, 
To use a cobbler's phrase. — There I was 

quaint. 
Now, what to do in this vile circumstance, 
To watch or go to bed, I can't determine ; 
Were I a-bed, the ghost might catch me 

napping, 



54 8 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And if I watch, my terrors will increase 
As ghostly hours approach. I'll to my bed 
E'en in my taffeta doublet, shrink my head 
Beneath the clothes — leave the lamp burn- 
ing there, 
And trust to fate the issue. 

[Sets it on the table. 
[He lays aside his cloak, and 
brushes it, as front habit, start- 
ing at every moment ; ties a nap- 
kin over his head ; then shrinks 
beneath the bed-clothes. He 
starts once or twice, and at 
length seems to go to sleep. A 
bell tolls ONE. He leaps up in 
his bed. 
Gul. I had just coax'd myself to sweet 
forgetfulness, 
And that confounded bell— I hate all bells, 
Except a dinner-bell— and yet I lie, too, — 
I love the bell that soon shall tell the parish 
Of Gabblegoose, Melchisedek's incum- 
bent — 
And shall the future minister of Gabble- 
goose, 
Whom his parishioners will soon require 
To exorcise their ghosts, detect their 

witches, 
Lie shivering in his bed for a pert goblin, 
Whom, be he switch'd or cocktail'd, horn'd 

or poll'd, 
A few tight Hebrew words will soon send 

packing? 
Tush ! I will rouse the parson up within me, 

And bid defiance {A distant noise). 

In the name of Heaven, 
What sounds are these ? — O Lord ! this 
comes of rashness ! 

[Draws his head down under the 
bed-clothes. 

Duet without, between Owlspiegle and 

COCKLEDEMOY. 

Owls. Cockledemoy, 

My boy, my boy, 
Cockl. Here, father, here. 

Owls. Now the pole-star's red and burn- 
ing, 
And the witch's spindle turning, 
Appear, appear ! 
GUL. (who has again raised himself , and 
listened with great terror to the 
Duet)— 
I have heard of the devil's dam before, 
But never of his child. Now, Heaven 
deliver me, 



The Papists have the better of us there,— 
They have their Latin prayers, cut and 

dried, 
And pat for such occasion. — I can think 
On nought but the vernacular. 

Owls. Cockledemoy ! 

My boy, my boy, 

We'll sport us here — 
Cockl. ' Our gambols play, 

Like elve and fay ; 
Owls. And domineer, 

Both. Laugh, frolic, and frisk, till the 

morning appear. 
Cockl. Lift latch — open clasp — 

Shoot bolt — and burst hasp ! 

[The door opens with violence. 
Enter Blackthorn as Owl- 
spiegle, fantastically dressed as 
a Spanish Barber, tall, thin, ema- 
ciated, and ghostly; K.ATLEEN, 
as Cockledemoy, attends as his 
page. All their manners, tones, 
and motions, are fantastic, as 
those of Goblins. They make two 
or three times the circuit of the 
Room, without seeming to see 
Gullcrammer. They then re- 
sume their Chaunt, or Recitative. 

Owls. Cockledemoy! 

My boy, my boy, 
What wilt thou do that will give 

thee joy? 
Wilt thou ride on the midnight 
owl? 
Cockl. No; for the weather is stormy 

and foul. 
Owls. Cockledemoy ! 

My boy, my boy, 
What wilt thou do that can give 

thee joy ? 
With a needle for a sword, and a 

thimble for a hat, 
Wilt thou fight a traverse with 
the castle cat ? 
Cockl. Oh no ! she has claws, and I like 
not that. 

Gul. I see the devil is a doting father, 
And spoils his children — 'tis the surest way 
To make cursed imps of them. They see 

me not — 
What will they think on next ? It must 

be own'd, 
They have a dainty choice of occupations. 









THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



549 



Owls. 


Cockledemoy ! 


At an usurer's funeral I stole 




My boy, my boy, 


from the heir. 




What shall we do that can give 


[Drops something from a vial, as 




thee joy ? 


going to make suds. 

This dewdrop I caught from one 




Shall we go seek for a cuckoo's 




nest. 


eye of his mother, 


Cockl 


That's best, that's best ! 


Which wept while she ogled the 


Both. 


About, about, 


parson with t'other. 




Like an elvish scout, 


Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 




The cuckoo's a gull, and we'll 


and the buz, 




soon find him out. 


Of the make-believe world, be- 


f They search the room with mops 


comes forfeit to us. 




and mows. At length COCKLE- 


OWLS, {arranging the lather and the 




DEMOY jumps on the bed. Gull- 


basin) — 




CRAMMER raises himself half up, 


My soap-ball is of the mild alkali 




supporting himself by his hands. 


made, 




Cockledemoy does the same, 


Which the soft dedicator em- 




and grins at him, then skips 


ploys in his trade ; 




from the bed, and runs to OWL- 


And it froths with the pith of a 




SP1EGLE. 


promise, that's sworn 


Cockl 


I've found the nest, 


By a lover at night, and forgot 




And in it a guest, 


on the morn. 




With a sable cloak and a taffeta 


Both. For all of the humbug, the bite, 




vest; 


and the buz, 




He must be wash'd, and trimm'd, 


Of the make-believe world, be- 




and dress'd, 


comes forfeit to us. 




To please the eyes he loves the 


Halloo, halloo, 




best. 


The blackcock crew, 


Owls. 


That's best, that's best. 


Thrice shriek'd hath the owl, 


Both. 


He must be shaved, and trimm'd, 


thrice croak'd hath the raven, 




and dress'd, 


Here, ho! Master Gullcrammer, 




To please the eyes he loves the 


rise and be shaven I 


best. 
[They arrange shaving things on 


Da capo. 




the table, and sing as they pre- 


GUL. {who has been observing them). 




pare them. 


Ill pluck a spirit up ; they're merry gob- 


Both. 


Know that all of the humbug, the 


lins, 




bite, and the buz, 


And will deal mildly. I will soothe their 




Of the make-believe world, be- 


humour ; 




comes forfeit to us. 


Besides, my beard lacks trimming. 


Owls. 


{sharpening his razor) — 


[He rises from his bed, aud ad- 




The sword this is made of was 


vances with great symptoms of 




lost in a fray 


trepidation, but affecting an air 




By a fop, who first bullied and 


of composure. The Goblins re- 




then ran away ; 


ceive him with fantastic cere- 




And the strap, from the hide of a 


mony. 




lame racer, sold 


Gentlemen, 'tis your will I should be 




By Lord Match, to his friend, for 


trimm'd — 




some hundreds in gold, 


E'en do your pleasure. 


Both. 


For all of the humbug, the bite, 


[They point to a seat — he sits. 




and the buz, 


Think, howsoe'er, 




Of the make-believe world, be- 


Of me as one who hates to see his 




comes forfeit to us. 


blood ; 


Cockl 


. (placifig the napkin) — 


Therefore I do beseech you, signior, 




And this cambric napkin, so 


Be gentle in your craft. I know those 




white and so fair, 


barbers, 



55o 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



One would have harrows driven across his 

visnomy, 
Rather than they should touch it with a 

razor. 

OWLSPIEGLE shaves GULLCRAMMER, 
vohile COCKLEDEMOY sings. 

Father never started hair, 
• Shaved too close, or left too bare — 
Father's razor slips as glib 
As from courtly tongue a fib. 
Whiskers, mustache, he can trim in 
Fashion meet to please the women ; 
Sharp's his blade, perfumed his lather ! 
Happy those are trimm'd by father ! 

Gul. That's a good boy. I love to 
hear a child 
Stand for his father, if he were the devil. 

[He motions to rise. 
Craving your pardon, sir. — What ! sit 

again ? 
My hair lacks not your scissors. 

[OWLSPIEGLE insists on his sitting. 
Nay, if you're peremptory, I'll ne'er dis- 
pute i::, i 
Nor eat the cow and choke upon the tail — 
E'en trim me to your fashion. 

[Owlspiegle cuts his hair, and 
shaves his head, ridiculously. 

COCKLEDEMOY {sings as before) . 
Hair-breadth 'scapes, and hair-breadth 

snares, 
Hair-brain' d follies, ventures, cares, 
Part when father clips your hairs. 
If there is a hero frantic, 
Or a lover too romantic ; — 
If threescore seeks second spouse, 
Or fourteen lists lover's vows, 
Bring them here — for a Scotch boddle, 
Owlspiegle shall trim their noddle. 

[ They take the napkin from about 
Gullcrammer's neck. He makes 
bows of acknowledgment, which 
they return fantastically, and 
sing— 
Thrice crow'd hath the blackcock, thrice 

croak'd hath the raven, 
And Master Melchisedek Gullcrammer's 
shaven ! 

Gul. My friends, you are too musical 

for me 
But though I cannot cope with you in song, 
I would, in T: humble prose, inquire of 

you, 
If that you will permit me to acquit 



Even with the barber's pence the barber's 
service? {They shake their heads. 

Or if there is aught else that I can do for 
you, 

Sweet Master Owlspiegle, or your loving 
child, 

The hopeful Cockle'moy ? 

Cockl. Sir, you have been trimm'd of 
late, 
Smooth's your chin, and bald your pate; 
Lest cold rheums should work you harm, 
Here's a cap to keep you warm. 

. Gul. Welcome, as Fortunatus' wishing 

cap, 
For 'twas a cap that I was wishing for. 
(There I was quaint in spite of mortal 
terror.) 

[As he puts on the cap, a pair of 
ass's ears disengage themselves. 
Upon my faith, it is a dainty head-dress, 
And might become an alderman!— 

Thanks, sweet Monsieur, 
Thou'rt a considerate youth. 

[Both Goblins bow with ceremony 
to GULLCRAMMER, who returns 
their salutation. Owlspiegle 
descends by the trap - door. 
Cockledemoy springs out at 
window. 

SONG {without). 
Owls. Cockledemoy, my hope, my care, 

Where art thou now, O tell me where? 
COCKL. Up in the sky, 

On the bonny dragonfly, 
Come, father, come you too — 
She has four wings and strength enow, 
And her long body has room for two. 

Gul. Cockledemoy now is a naughty 

brat- 
Would have the poor old stiff-rump'd devil, 

his father, 
Peril his fiendish neck. All boys are 

thoughtless. 

SONG. 
Owls. Which way didst thou take ? 
Cockl. I have fallen in the lake — 

Help, father, for Beelzebub's sake. 

Gul. The imp is drown'd— a strange 

death for a devil ! 
O, may all boys take warning, and be 

civil ; 
Respect their loving sires, endure a chiding, 
Nor roam by night on dragonfiies a-riding 1 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



551 



COCKL. [sings). Now merrily, merrily, 
row I to shore, 

My bark is a beau-shell, a straw for 
an oar. 
OWLS, (sings). My life, my joy, 

My Cockledemoy! 
Gul. I can bear this no longer — thus 

children are spoil'd. 
(Strikes into the tune.) — Master Owl- 

spiegle, hoy ! 
He deserves to be whipp'd, little Cockle- 
demoy ! 
\Their voices arc heard, as if dying away. 
Gul. They're gone! — Now, am I 

scared, or am I not ? 
I think the very desperate ecstasy 
Of fear has given me courage. This is 

strange, now ! 
When they were here, I was not half so 

frighten'd 
As new they're gone — they were a sort of 

company. 
What a strange thing is use ! — A horn, a 

claw, 
The tip of a fiend's tail, was wont to scare 

me; — 
Now am I with the devil hand and glove ; 
His soap has lather'd, and his razor shaved 

me ; 
I've join'd him in a catch, kept time and 

tune, 
Could dine with him, nor ask for a long 

spoon ; 
And if I keep not better company, 
What will become of me when I shall die ? 

[Exit. 
Scene III. 

A Gothic Hall, waste and ruinous. The 
moonlight is at times seen through the 
shafted windows. Enter KATLEEN 
and Blackthorn — They have thrown 
off the more ludicrous parts of their dis- 
guise. 
Kat. This way— this way. Was ever 

fool so gull'd ! 
Bla. I play'd the barber better than I 
thought for. 
Well, I've an occupation in reserve, 
When the long-bow and merry musket 

fail me. — 
But, hark ye, pretty Katleen. 

Kat. ' What should I hearken to? 
Bla. Art thou not afraid, 
In these wild halls while playing feigned 
goblins, 



That we may meet with real ones? 

Kat. Not a jot. 

My spirit is too light, my heart too bold, 
To fear a visit from the other world. 
Bla. But is not this the place, the very 
hall 
In which men say that Oswald's grand- 
father, 
The black Lord Erick, walks his penance 

round ? 
Credit me, Katleen, these half-moulder" d 

columns 
Have in their ruin something very fiendish, 
And, if you'll take an honest friend's ad- 
vice, 
The sooner that you change their shatter'd 

splendour 
For the snug cottage that I told you of, 
Believe me, it will prove the blither dwell- 
ing. 
Kat. If I e'er see that cottage, honest 
Blackthorn, 
Believe me, it shall be from other motive 
Than fear of Erick's spectre. 

[A rustling sound is heard. 
Bla. I heard a rustling sound — 

Upon my life, there's something in the hall, 
Katleen, besides us two ! 

Kat. A yeoman thou, 

A forester, and frighten'd ! I am sorry 
I gave the fool's-cap to poor Gullcrammer, 
And let thy head go bare. 

[The same rushing sound is repeated. 
Bla. Why, are you mad, or hear you 

not the sound? 
Kat. And if I do, I take small heed of 
it. 
Will you allow a maiden to be bolder 
Than you, with beard on chin and sword 
at girdle ? 
Bla. Nay, if I had my sword, I would 
not care ; 
Though I ne'er heard of master of defence, 
So active at his weapon as to brave 
The devil, or a ghost — See ! see ! see 
yonder ! 

\A Figure is imperfectly seen be- 
tween two of the pillars. 
Kat. There's something moves, that's 
certain, and the moonlight, 
Chased by the flitting gale is too imperfect 
To show its form ; but, in the name of God, 
I'll venture on it boldly. 

Bla. Wilt thou so ? 

Were I alone, now, I were strongly 
tempted 



552 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



To trust my heels for safety; but with 

thee, 
Be it fiend or fairy, I'll take risk to meet it. 
Kat. It stands full in our path, and we 
must pass it, 
Or tarry here all night. 

Bla. In its vile company? 

[As they advafice towards the 
Figure, it is tnore plainly dis- 
tinguished, which might, I think, 
be contrived by raising successive 
screens of crape. The Figure is 
wrapped in a long robe, like the 
mantle of a Hermit, or Palmer. 
Pal. Ho ! ye who thread by night these 
wildering scenes, 
In garb of those who long have slept in 

death, 

Fear ye the company of those you imitate? 

Bla. This is the devil, Katleen, let us 

fly ! [Runs off. 

Kat. I will not fly — why should I ? My 

nerves shake 

To look on this strange vision, but my 

heart 
Partakes not the alarm. — If thou dost 

come in Heaven's name, 
In Heaven's name art thou welcome ! 
Pal. I come, by Heaven permitted. 
Quit this castle : 
There is a fate on't — if for good or evil, 
Brief space shall soon determine. In that 

fate, 
If good, by lineage thou canst nothing 

claim, 
If evil, much may'st suffer. — Leave these 
precincts. 
Kat. Whate'er thou art, be answer' d — 
Know, I will not 
Desert the kinswoman who train'd my 

youth ; 
Know, that I will not quit my friend, my 

Flora ; 
Know, that I will not leave the aged man 
Whose roof has shelter'd me. This is my 

resolve — 
If evil come, I aid my friends to bear it ; 
If good, my part shall be to see them 

prosper, 
A portion in their happiness from which 
No fiend can bar me. 

Pal. Maid, before thy courage, 

Firm built on innocence, even beings of 

nature 
More powerful far than thine, give place 
and way ; 



Take then this key, and wait the event 
with courage. 

[He drops the key.— He disappears 
gra dua lly — th e moo 71 Ugh tfa iling 
at the same lime. 
Kat. (after a pause): Whate'er it was, 
'tis gone ! My head turns round — 
The blood that lately fortified my heart 
Now eddies in full torrent to my brain, 
And makes wild work with reason. I will 

haste, 
If that my steps can bear me so far safe, 
To living company. What if I meet it 
Again in the long aisle, or vaulted passage? 
And if I do, the strong support that bore 

me 
Through this appalling interview, again 
Shall strengthen and uphold me. 

[As she steps forward, she stumbles 
over the key. 
What's this? The key?— there may be 

mystery in't. 
I'll to my kinswoman, when this dizzy fit 
Will give me leave to choose my way aright. 
[She sits down exhausted. 

Re-enter Blackthorn, with a drawn 
sword and torch. 

Bla. Katleen ! — what, Katleen ! — 
What a wretch was I 

To leave her ! — Katleen ! — I am weapon'd 
now, 

And fear nor dog nor devil. — She replies 
not! 

Beast that I was ! — nay, worse than beast ! 
The stag, 

As timorous as he is, fights for his hind. 

What's to be done?— I'll search this cursed 
castle 

From dungeon to the battlements ; if I find 
her not, 

I'll fling me from the highest pinnacle — 
KATLEEN (who has somewhat gathered 
her spirits in consequence of his en- 
trance, comes behind and touches him; 
he starts) . Brave sir ! 

I'll spars you that rash leap— You're a 
bold woodsman ! 

Surely I hope that from this night hence- 
forward 

You'll never kill a hare, since you're akin 
to them. 

O I could laugh— but that my head's so 
dizzy. 
Bla. Lean on me, Katleen— By my 
honest word. 



THE DOOM OF DEVORGOIL. 



553 



I thought you close behind — I was sur- 
prised, 
Not a jot frightened. 

Kat. Thou art a fool to ask me to thy 
cottage, 
And then to show me at what slight ex- 
pense 
Of manhood I might master thee and it. 
Bla. I'll take the risk of that— This 
goblin business 
Came rather unexpected ; the best horse 
Will start at sudden sights. Try me again, 
And if I prove not true to bonny Katleen, 
Hang me in mine own bowstring. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene IV. 

The Scene returns to the Apartment at the 
beginning of Act Second. Oswald 
and Durward are discovered with 
Eleanor, Flora, and Leonard — 
DURWARD shuts a Prayer-book, which 
he seems to have been reading. 

Dur. 'Tis true — the difference betwixt 
the churches, 
Which zealots love to dwell on, to the wise 
Of either flock are of far less importance 
Than those great truths to which all 

Christian men 
Subscribe with equal reverence. 

Osvv. We thank thee, father, for the 
holy office, 
Still best performed when the pastor's 

tongue 
Is echo to his breast : of jarring creeds 
It ill beseems a layman's tongue to 

speak — 
Where have you stow'd yon prater? 

[To Flora. 
Flo. Safe in the goblin-chamber. 
Ele. The goblin-chamber. 

Maiden, wert thou frantic? — if his Rever- 
ence 
Have suffer'd harm by waspish Owlspiegle, 
Be sure thou shalt abye it. 

Flo. Here he comes, 

Can answer for himself! 

Enter Gullcrammer, in the fashion in 
which Owlspiegle had put him; hav- 
ing the fool 's-cap on his head, and, towel 
about his neck, &>c. His manner through 
the scene is wild and extravagant, as if 
the fright had a little affected his brain. 
Dur. A goodly spectacle !— Is there 
such a goblin? 



[To Osw.) Or has sheer terror made him 
such a figure? 
Osvv. There is a sort of wavering tra- 
dition 
Of a malicious imp who teased all 

strangers ; 
My father wont to call him Owlspiegle. 

Gul. Who talks of Owlspiegle? 
He is an honest fellow for a devil. 
So is his son, the hopeful Cockle'moy. 
[Sings.) "My hope, my joy, 
My Cockledemoy !" 

Leo. The fool's bewitch'd — the goblin 
hath furnish'd him 
A cap which well befits his reverend wis- 
dom. 
Flo. If I could think he had lost his 
slender wits, 
I should be sorry for the trick they play'd 
him. 
Leo. O fear him not ; it were a foul re- 
flection 
On any fiend of sense and reputation, 
To filch such petty wares as his poor 
brains. 
Dur. What saw'st thou, sir? — what 

heard' st thou? 
Gul. What was't I saw and heard? 
That which old greybeards, 
Who conjure Hebrew into Anglo-Saxon, 
To cheat starved barons with, can little 
guess at. 
Flo. If he begin so roundly with my 
father, 
His madness is not like to save his bones. 
Gul. Sirs, midnight came, and with it 
came the goblin. 
I had reposed me after some brief study ; 
But as the soldier, sleeping in the trench, 
Keeps sword and musket by him, so I had 
My little Hebrew manual prompt for ser- 
vice. 
Flo. Sausagian soused-face; that much 
of your Hebrew 
Even I can bear in memory. 

Gul. We counter'd, 

The goblin and myself, even in mid- 
chamber, 
And each stepp'd back a pace, as 'twere 

to study 
The foe he had to deal with !— I bethought 

me, 
Ghosts ne'er have the first word, and so I 

took it, 
And fired a volley of round Greek at him, 



554 



SCOTT S POETICAL WORKS. 



He stood his ground, and answer'd in the 

Syriac ; 
I flank'd my Greek with Hebrew, and 

compelled him — [A voisc heard. 

Osw. Peace, idle prater ! — Hark — what 

sounds are these ? 
Amid the growling of the storm without, 
I hear strange notes of music, and the 

clash 
Oi coursers trampling feet. 

Voices (without). We come, dark riders 
of the night, 
And flit before the dawning light ; 
Hill and valley, far aloof, 
Shake to hear our chargers' hoof; 
But not a foot-stamp on the green 
At morn shall show where we have 
been. 

Osw. These must be revellers belated- 
Let them pass on; the ruin'd halls of 

Devorgoil 
Open to no such guests. — 

[Flourish of trumpets at a dista?ice, 
then ?iearer. 

They sound a summons ; 
What can they lack at this dead hour of 

night ? 
Look out, and see their number, and their 
bearing. 
Leo. [goes up to the window) — 
'Tis strange — one single shadowy form 

alone 
Is hovering on the drawbridge — far apart 
Flit through the tempest banners, horse, 

and riders, 
In darkness lost, or dimly seen by light- 
ning.— 
Hither the figure moves — the bolts re- 
volve — 
The gate uncloses to him. 

Ele. Heaven protect us ! 

The Palmer enters— Gullcrammer 
runs off. 

Osw. Whence, and what art thou ? for 

what end come hither ? 
Pal. I come from a far land, where 
the storm howls not, 
And the sun sets not, to pronounce to thee, 
Oswald of Devorgoil, thy house's fate. 
Dur. I charge thee, in the name we 

late have kneel'd to 

Pal. Abbot of Lanercost, I bid thee 
peace ! 
Uninterrupted let me do mine errand : 



Baron of Devorgoil, son of the bold, the 

proud, 
The warlike and the mighty, wherefore 

wear'st thou 
The habit of a peasant ? Tell me, where- 
fore 
Are thy fair halls thus waste — thy cham- 
bers bare ? — 
Where are the tapestries, where the con- 

quer'd banners, 
Trophies, and gilded arms, that deck'd 

the walls 
Of once proud Devorgoil ? 

[He advances, and places himself 

zvhere the Armour hung, so as to 

be nearly in the centre of the 

Scene. 

Dur. Whoe'er thou art — if thou dost 

know so much, 

Needs must thou know 

Osw. Peace ! I will answer here ; to me 
he spoke — 
Mysterious stranger, briefly I reply : 
A peasant's dress befits a peasant's for- 
tune; 
And 'twere vain mockery to array these 

walls 
In trophies, of whose memory nought re- 
mains, 
Save that the cruelty outvied the valour 
Of those who wore them. 

Pal. Degenerate as thou art, 

Know'st thou to whom thou say'st this ? 
[He drops his mantle, and is dis- 
covered armed as nearly as may 
be to the suit which hung on the 
wall; all express terror. 
Osw. It is himself— the spirit of mine 

Ancestor ! 
Eri. Tremble not, son, but hear me ! 
[He strikes the wall ; it opens, and 
discovers the Treasure-Chamber. 
There lies piled 
The wealth I brought from wasted Cum- 
berland, 
Enough to reinstate thy ruin'd fortunes. — 
Cast from thine high-born brows that pea- 
sant bonnet, 
Throw from thy noble grasp the pea- 
sant's staff— 
O'er all, withdraw thine hand from that 

mean mate, 
Whom in an hour of reckless desperation 
Thy fortunes cast thee on. This do, 
And be as great as e'er was Devorgoil, 
When Devorgoil was richest ! 



" 



THE DOOM OF DEV0RG01L. 



555 



Dur. Lord Oswald, thou art tempted 
by a fiend, 

Who doth assail thee on thy weakest 
side, — 

Thy pride of lineage, and thy love of 
grandeur. 

Stand fast — resist — contemn i his fatal 
offers ! 
Ele. Urge him not, father; if the sacri- 
fice 

Of such a wasted woe-worn wretch as I 
am, 

Can save him from the abyss of misery, 

Upon whose verge he's tottering, let me 
wander 

An unacknowledged outcast from his 
castle, 

Even to the humble cottage I was born in. 
Osw. No, Ellen, no— it is not thus they 
part, 

Whose hearts and souls, disasters borne 
in common 

Have knit together, close as summer sap- 
lings 

Are twined in union by the eddying tem- 
pest. — 

Spiric of Erick, while thou bear'st his 
shape, 

I'll answer with no ruder conjuration 

Thy impious counsel, other than with these 
words, 

Depart, and tempt me not ! 
Eri. Then Fate will have her course. — 
Fall, massive grate, 

Yield them the tempting view of these rich 
treasures, 

But bar them from possession ! (A port- 
cullis falls before the door of the Trea- 
su re-Chamber.) Mortals, hear! 

No hand may ope that gate, except the 
Heir 

Of plunder'd Aglionby, whose mighty 
wealth, 

Ravish'd in evil hour, lies yonder piled ; 

And not his hand prevails without the key 

Of Black Lord Erick. Brief space is given 

To save proud Devorgoil — so wills high 
Heaven. [Thunder; he disappears. 
Dur. Gaze not so wildly; you have 
stood the trial 

That his commission bore, and Heaven 
designs, 

If I may spell his will, to rescue Devorgoil 

Even by the Heir of Aglionby— Behold 
him 

In that young forester, unto whose hand 



Those bars shall yield the treasures of his 

house, 
Destined to ransom yours. — Advance, 

young Leonard, 
And prove the adventure. 

Leo. {advances, and attempts the grate). 
It is fast 
As is the tower, rock-seated. 
Osw. We will fetch other means, and 
prove its strength, 
Nor starve in poverty, with wealth before 
us. 
Dur. Think what the vision spoke ; 
The key — the fated key 

Enter Gullcrammer. 

Gul. A key ? — I say a quay is what we 

want, 
Thus by the learn'd orthographized— 

Q. u, a, y. 
The lake is overflow'd ! — a quay, a boat, 
Oars, punt, or sculler, is all one to me 1 — 
We shall be drown'd, good people ! ! ! 

Enter Katleen and Blackthorn'. 

Kat. Deliver us ! 

Haste, save yourselves — the lake is rising 

fast. 
Bla. 'T has risen my bow's height in 

the last five minutes, 
And still is swelling strangely. 

Gul. (who has stood astonished upon 

seeing them) — 
We shall be drown'd without your kind 

assistance. 
Sweet Master Owlspiegle, your dragonfly — 
Your straw, your bean-stalk, gentle 

Cockle'moy ! 
LEO. (looking from the shot-hole). 
'Tis true, by all that's fearful. The proud 

lake 
Peers, like ambitious tyrant, o'er his 

bounds, 
And soon will whelm the castle — even the 

drawbridge 
Is under water now. 

Kat. Let us escape! Why stand you 

gazing there ? 
Dur. Upon the opening of that fatal 

grate 
Depends the fearful spell that now entraps 

us, 
The key of Black Lord Erick — ere we 

find it, 
The castle will be whelm'd beneath the 

waves, 



556 



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS. 



And we shall perish in it ! 

Kat. {giving the key). Here, prove 
this ; 
A chance most strange and fearful gave it 
me. 

[Oswald puts it into the lock, 
and attempts to turn it — a loud 
clap of thunder. 
Flo. The lake still rises faster. — Leo- 
nard, Leonard, 
Canst thou not save us ! 

[Leonard tries the lock— it opens 
with a violent noise, and the 
Portcullis rises. A loud strain 
of wild music. — There may be a 
Chorus here. 
[Oswald enters the apartment, and 
drings out a scroll. 
Leo. The lake is ebbing with as won- 
drous haste 
As late it rose — the drawbridge is left dry ! 

Osw. This may explain the cause — 
(Gullcrammer offers to take it.) But 

soft you, sir, 
We'll not disturb your learning for the 

matter ; 
Yet, since you've borne a part in this 

strange drama, 
You shall not go unguerdon'd. Wise or 

learn 'd, 
Modest or gentle, Heaven alone can make 

thee, 
Being so much otherwise ; but from this 

abundance 
Thou shalt have that shall gild thine 
ignorance, 



Exalt thy base descent, make thy pre- 
sumption 
Seem modest confidence, and find thee 

hundreds 
Ready to swear that same fool's cap of 

thine 
Is reverend as a mitre. 
Gul. Thanks, mighty baron, now no 

more a bare one ! 
I will be quaint with him, for all his 

quips. [Aside. 

Osw. Nor shall kind Katleen lack 
Her portion in our happiness. 
Kat. Thanks, my good lord, but Kat- 

leen's fate is fix'd — 
There is a certain valiant forester, 
Too much afear'd of ghosts to sleep 

anights 
In his lone cottage, without one to guard 

him. — 
Leo. If I forget my comrade's faithful 

friendship, 
May I be lost to fortune, hope, and love ! 
Dur. Peace, all ! and hear the blessing 

which this scroll 
Speaks unto faith, and constancy, and 

virtue : — 

" No more this castle's troubled guest, 
Dark Erick's spirit hath found rest. 
The storms of angry Fate are past, 
For Constancy defies their blast. 
Of Devorgoil the daughter free 
Shall wed the heir of Aglionby ; 
Nor ever more dishonour soil 
The rescued house of Devorgoil ! " 




APPENDIX. 



THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



Note r. 

The feast was over in Branksome tower. — P. 8. 

In the reign of James I., Sir William Scott of 
Buccleuch, chief of the clan bearing that name, 
exchanged, with Sir Thomas Inglis of Manor, 
the estate of Murdiestone, in Lanarkshire, for 
one-half of the barony of Branksome, or Brank- 
holm, lying upon the Teviot, about three miles 
above Hawick. He was" probably induced to 
this transaction from the vicinity of Branksome 
to the extensive domain which he possessed in 
Ettrick Forest, and in Teviotdale. In the 
former district he held by occupancy the estate 
of Buccleuch, and much of the forest land on 
the river Ettrick. In Teviotdale, he enjoyed 
the barony of Eckford, by a grant from Robert 
II. to his ancestor, Walter Scott of Kirkurd, for 
the apprehending of Gilbert Ridderford, con- 
firmed by Robert III. 3rd May, 1424. Tra- 
dition imputes the exchange betwixt Scott and 
Inglis to a conversation, in which the latter — a 
man, it would appear, of a mild and forbearing 
nature — complained much of the injuries to 
which he was exposed from the English Bor- 
derers, who frequently plundered his lands of 
Branksome. Sir William Scott instantly offered 
him the estate of Murdiestone, in exchange for 
that which was subject to such egregious in- 
convenience. When the bargain was completed, 
he dryly remarked, that the cattle in Cumber- 
land were as good as those of Teviotdale ; and 
proceeded to commence a system of reprisals 
upon the English, which was regularly pursued 
by his successors. In the next reign, James II. 
granted to Sir Walter Scott of Branksome, and 
to Sir David, his son, the remaining half of the 
barony of Branksome, to be held in blanche for 
the payment of a red rose. The cause assigned 
for the grant is, their brave and faithful exer- 
tions in favour of the King against the house of 
Douglas, with whom James had been recently 
tugging for the throne of Scotland. This charter 
is dated the 2nd February, 1443 ; and, in the 
same month, part of the barony of Langholm, 
and many lands in Lanarkshire, were conferred 
upon Sir Walter and his son by the same 
monarch. 



Note 2. 
Nine- and- twenty Knights of fame 

Hungtheirshieldsin Branksome-Hall.—V .8. 

The ancient barons of Buccleuch, both from 
feudal splendour and from their frontier situa- 
tion, retained in their household at Branksome, 
a number of gentlemen of their own name, who 
held lands from their chief, for the military 
service of watching and warding his castle. 

Note 3. 
with Jedwo»d-axe at saddlebow. — P. 8. 

"Of a truth," says Froissart, "the Scottish 
cannot boast great skill with the bow, but 
rather bear axes, with which, in time of need, 
they give heavy strokes." The Jedwood-axe 
was a sort of partisan, used by horsemen, as 
appears from the arms of Jedburgh, which bear 
a cavalier mounted, and armed with this 
weapon. It is also called a Jedwood or Jed- 
dart staff. 

Note 4. 
They watch, against Southern force and guile, 

Lest Scroop, or Howard, or Percy's powers, 

Threaten Branksome 's lordly towers, 
From Warkworth, or Naworth, or merry 
Carlisle.— -P. 8. 

Branksome Castle was continually exposed 
to the attacks of the English, both from its 
situation and the restless military disposition of 
its inhabitants, who were seldom on good terms 
with their neighbours. 

Note 5. 
Bards long shall tell. 
How Lord Walter fell.— -P. 9. 
Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch succeeded to 
his grandfather, Sir David, in 1492. He was a 
brave and powerful baron, and Warden of the 
West Marches of Scotland. His death was 
the consequence of a feud betwixt the Scotts 
and Kerrs. 

Note 6. 
While Cessford owns the rule of Carr, 
While Ettrick boasts the line of Scott. 



553 



appendix:. 



The slaughter d chiefs, the mortal jar, 
The havock of the feudal war, 
Shall never, never be forgot !—V. 9. 

Among other expedients resorted to for 
stanching the feud betwixt the Scotts and the 
Kerrs, there was a bond executed in 1529, be- 
tween the heads of each clan, binding them- 
selves to perform reciprocally the four principal 
pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit of the 
souls of those of the opposite name who had 
fallen in the quarrel. But either this indenture 
never took effect, or else the feud was renewed 
shortly afterwards. 



Note 7. 
With Carr in arms had stood.- 



-P. 9- 



The family of Ker, Kerr, or Carr,* was very 
powerful on the Border. Their influence ex- 
tended from the village of Preston-Grange, in 
Lothian, to the limits of England. Cessford 
Castle, now in ruins, the ancient baronial resid- 
ence of the family, is situated near the village 
of Morebattle, within two or three miles of the 
Cheviot Hills. Tradition affirms that it was 
founded by Halbert, or Habby Kerr, a gigantic 
warrior, concerning whom many stories are 
current in Roxburghshire. The Duke of Rox- 
burgh represents Ker of Cessford. 

Note 8. 
Lord Cranstoun. — P. 9. 
The Cranstouns are an ancient Border family, 
whose chief seat was at Crailing, inTeviotdale. 
They were at this time at feud with the clan of 
Scott; for it appears that the Lady of Buc- 
cleuch, in 1557, beset the Laird of Cranstoun, 
seeking his life. Nevertheless, the same Cran- 
stoun, or perhaps his son, was married to a 
daughter of the same lady. 

Note 9. 

OfBethune's line of Picardie. — P. 9. 

The Bethunes were of French origin, and 
derived their name from a small town in Artois. 
There were several distinguished families of the 
Bethunes in the neighbouring province of Pi- 
cardy ; they numbered among their descendants 
the celebrated Due de Sully, and the name was 
accounted among the most noble in France, 
while aught noble remained in that country, t 
The family of Bethune, or Beatoun, in Fife, 
produced three learned and dignified prelates, 
namely. Cardinal Beaton, and two successive 
Archbishops of Glasgow, all of whom flourished 
about the date of the romance. Of this family 

* The name is spelt differently by the various 
families who bear it. Carr is selected, not as the 
most correct, but as the most poetical reading. 

t This expression and sentiment were dic- 
tated by the situation of France, in the year 
1803, when the poem was originally written. 
1821. 



was descended Dame Janet Beaton, Lady Buc- 
cleuch, widow of Sir Walter Scott of Brank- 
some. She was a woman of masculine spirit, 
as appeared from her riding at the head of her 
son's clan, after her husband's murder. She 
was believed by the superstition of the vulgar 
to possess supernatural knowledge. With this 
was mingled, by faction, the foul accusation of 
her having influenced Queen Mary to the mur- 
der of her husband. One of the placards, pre- 
served in Buchanan's Detection, accuses of 
Darnley's murder " the Erie of Bothwell, Mr. 
James Balfour, the persoun of Fliske, Mr. 
David Chalmers, black Mr. John Spens, who 
was principal deviser of the murder ; and the 
Queen, assenting thairto, throw the persuasion 
of the Erie Bothwell, and the witcltcraft of 
Lady Buckleuch." 

Note 10. 

He learn'd the art that none may name, 
In Padua, far beyond the sea. — P. 9. 

Padua was long supposed by the Scottish 
peasants to be the principal school of necro- 
mancy. The Earl of Gowrie, slain at Perth, 
in 1600, pretended, during his studies in Italy, 
to have acquired some knowledge of the cabala. 
— See the examination of Wemyss of Bogie, 
before the Privy Council, concerning Gowrie's 
Conspiracy. 

Note ii. 

Hisfortn no darkening shadow traced 
Upon the sunny wall. — P. 9. 

The shadow of a necromancer is independent 
of the sun. Glycas informs us that Simon Ma- 
gus caused his shadow to go before him, making 
people believe it was an attendant spirit. — 
Hey/wood's Hierarchie, p. 475. A common 
superstition was that when a class of students 
had made a certain progress in their mystic 
studies, they were obliged to run through a 
subterranean hall, where the devil literally 
caught the hindmost in the race, unless he 
crossed the hall so speedily that the arch-enemy 
could only grasp his shadow. Hence the old 
Scotch proverb, "De'il take the hindmost." 
Sorcerers were often fabled to have given their 
shadows to the fiend. 

Note 12. 

By wily turns, by desperate bounds, 

Had baffled Percy's best blood-hounds. — P. 10. 

The kings and heroes of Scotland, as well as 
the Border-riders, were sometimes obliged to 
study how to evade the pursuit of blood-hounds. 
Barbour informs us that Robert Bruce was re- 
peatedly tracked by sleuth-dogs. On one occa- 
sion, he escaped by wading a bow-shot down a 
brook, and ascending into a tree by a branch 
which overhung the water ; thus, leaving no 
trace on land of his footsteps, he baffled the 
scent. 

A sure way of stopping the dog was to spill 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



559 



blood upon the track, which destroyed the dis- 
criminating fineness of his scent. A captive 
was sometimes sacrificed on such occasions. 
Henry the Minstrel tells a romantic story of 
Wallace, founded on this circumstance : — The 
hero's little band had been joined by an Irish- 
man, named Fawdoun, or Fadzean, a dark, 
savage, and suspicious character. After a 
sharp skirmish at Black-Erne Side, Wallace 
was forced to retreat with only sixteen fol- 
lowers, the English pursuing with a Border 
blood-hound. 

In the retreat, Fawdoun, tired, or affecting 
to be so, would go no farther, and Wallace, 
having in vain argued with him, in hasty anger, 
struck off his head, and continued the retreat. 
When the English came up, their hound stayed 
upon the dead body : — 

"The sleuth stopped at Fawdon, still she stood, 
Norfarther would, fra time she fund the blood." 

Note 13. 

But when Melrose he reach' d, 'twas silence all ; 

He meetly stabled his steed in stall, 

And sought tlie convent's lonely ivall. — P. 12. 

The ancient and beautiful monastery of Mel- 
rose was founded by King David I. Its ruins 
afford the finest specimen of Gothic architecture 
and Gothic sculpture which Scotland can boast. 
The stone of which it is built, though it has 
resisted the weather for so many ages, retains 
perfect sharpness, so that even the most minute 
ornaments seem as entire as when newly 
wrought. 

Note 14. 

WJien buttress and buttress, alternately, 

Seem framed oj 'ebon aiid ivory ; 

When silver edges tlie imagery, 

And tlie scrolls t/iat teach thee to live and die. 

Then view St. David's ruin' d pile. — P. 12. 

The buttresses ranged along the sides of the 
ruins of Melrose Abbey, are, according to the 
Gothic style, richly carved and fretted, con- 
taining niches for the statues of saints, and 
labelled with scrolls, bearing appropriate texts 
of Scripture. Most of these statues have been 
demolished. 

David I. of Scotland, purchased the reputa- 
tion of sanctity, by founding, and liberally en- 
dowing, not only the monastery of Melrose, 
but those of Kelso, Jedburgh, and many others ; 
which led to the well-known observation of his 
successor, that he was a sore saint for the 
crown. 

Note 15. 
And tJiere tJte dying lamps did burn, 
Before thy low aiid lonely urn, 
O gallant Chief of Otterbume /—P. 13. 

The famous and desperate battle of Otter- 
bume was fought 15th August, 1388, betwixt 
Henry Percy, called Hotspur, and James, Earl 



of Douglas. Both these renowned rival cham- 
pions were at the head of a chosen body of 
troops. The Earl of Douglas was slain in the 
action. He was buried at Melrose, beneath 
the high altar. 

Note 16. 
dark Knight of Liddesdale . — P. 13. 

William Douglas, called the Knight of Lid- 
desdale, flourished during the reign of David 
II., and was so distinguished by his valour, 
that he was called the Flower of Chivalry. 
Nevertheless, he tarnished his renown by the 
cruel murder of Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dal- 
housie, originally his friend and brother in 
arms. The King had conferred upon Ramsay 
the sheriffdom of Teviotdale, to which Douglas 
pretended some claim. In revenge of this pre- 
ference, the Knight of Liddesdale came down 
upon Ramsay, while he was administering jus- 
tice at Hawick, seized and carried him off to 
his remote and inaccessible castle of Hermitage, 
where he threw his unfortunate prisoner, horse 
and man, into a dungeon, leaving him to perish 
of hunger. 

Note 17. ^ 

tlie wondrous Michael Scott. — P. 14. 

Sir Michael Scott of Balwearie flourished 
during the 13th century, and was one of the 
ambassadors sent to bring the maid of Norway 
to Scotland upon the death of Alexander III. 
By a poetical anachronism, he is here placed in 
a later era. He was a man of much learning, 
chiefly acquired in foreign countries. He wrote 
a commentary upon Aristotle, printed at Venice 
in 1496 ; and several treatises upon natural 
philosophy, from which he appears to have 
been addicted to the abstruse studies of judicial 
astrology, alchymy, physiognomy, and chiro- 
mancy. Hence he passed among his contempo- 
raries for a skilful magician. Dempster informs 
us that he remembers to have heard in his 
youth that the magic books of Michael Scott 
were still in existence, but could not be opened 
without danger, on account of the malignant 
fiends who were thereby invoked. 

Tradition varies concerning the place of his 
burial; some contend for Home Coltrame, in 
Cumberland ; others for Melrose Abbey. But 
all agree that his books of magic were interred 
in his grave, or preserved in the convent where 
he died. 

Note 18. 

Tlie words that cleft Eildon hills in three.—' 

P. 14. 
Michael Scott was, once upon a time, much 
embarrassed by a spirit, for whom he was under 
the necessity of finding constant employment. 
He commanded him to build a cauld, or dam- 
head, across the Tweed at Kelso ; it was ac- 
complished in one night, and still does honour 
to the infernal architect. Michael next ordered 
that Eildon hill, which was then a uniform 



$6o 



'APPENDIX. 



cone, should be divided into three. Another 
night was sufficient to part its summit into the 
three picturesque peaks which it now bears. 
At length the enchanter conquered this inde- 
fatigable demon, by employing him in the 
hopeless and endless task of making ropes out 
of sea-sand. 

Note 19. 
Tlie Baron's Dwarf his course* held. — P. 16. 

The idea of Lord Cranstoun's Goblin Page is 
taken from a being called Gilpin Horner, who 
appeared, and made some stay, at a farm-house 
among the Border mountains. 

Note 20. 
All was delusion, nought was truth. — P. 19. 

Glamour, in the legends of Scottish super- 
stition, means the magic power of imposing on 
the eyesight of the spectators, so that the ap- 
pearance of an object shall be totally different 
from the reality. To such a charm the ballad 
of Johnny Fa' imputes the fascination of the 
lovely Countess, who eloped with that gipsy 
leader : — 

" Sae soon as they saw her weel-far'd face, 
They cast the glamour o'er her." 

Note 21. 

Until they came to a woodland brook ; 

[ The running stream dissolved tlie spell. — 
P. 19. 

It is a firm article of popular faith, that no 
enchantment can subsist in a living stream. 
Nay, if you can interpose a brook betwixt you 
and witches, spectres, or even fiends, you are 
in perfect safety. Burns's inimitable Tarn o' 
Shanter turns entirely upon such a superstition. 

Note 22. 

He never counted him a man, 

Would strike below tlie knee.^-P. 18. 

To wound an antagonist in the thigh or leg 
was reckoned contrary to the law of arms. In 
a tilt betwixt Gawain Michael, an English 
squire, and Joachim Cathore, a Frenchman, 
" they met at the speare poyntes rudely ; the 
French squyer justed right pleasantly ; the 
Englishman ran too lowe, for he strak the 
Frenchman depe into the thigh. Wherewith the 
Erie of Buckingham was right sore displeased, 
and so were all the other lords, and sayde how 
it was shamefully done."— Froissart, vol. i. 
chap. 366. 

Note 23. 
On many a cairn's gray pyramid, 
Where urns of mighty chiefs lie hid. — P. 22. 

The cairns, or piles of loose stones, which 
crown the summit of most of our Scottish hills, 
and are found in other remarkable situations, 
seem usually, though not universally, to have 
been sepulchral monuments. Six flat stones 



are commonly found in the centre, forming a 
cavity of greater or smaller dimensions, in which 
an urn is often placed. The author is possessed 
of one, discovered beneath an immense cairn a» 
Roughlee, in Liddesdale. It is of the most 
barbarous construction ; the middle of the sub- 
stance alone having been subjected to the fire, 
over which, when hardened, the artist had laid 
an inner and outer coat of unbaked clay, etched 
with some very rude ornaments, his skill appar- 
ently being inadequate to baking the vase when 
completely finished. The contents were bones 
and ashes, and a quantity of beads made of 
coal. This seems to have been a barbarous 
imitation of the Roman fashion of sepulture. 

Note 24. 
For pathless marsh, and mountain cell, 
The peasant left his lowly shed. — P. 22. 

The morasses were the usual refuge of the 
Border herdsmen on the approach of an English 
army. — {Minstrelsy of tlie Scottish Border, vol. 
i- P- 393- ) Caves, hewed in the most dangerous 
and inaccessible places, also afforded an occa- 
sional retreat. Such caverns may be seen in 
the precipitous banks of the Teviot at Sun laws, 
upon the Ale at Ancram, upon the Jed at Hun- 
dalee, and in many other places upon the 
Border. The banks of the Eske, at Gorton and 
Hawthornden, are hollowed into similar re- 
cesses. 

Note 25. 
Watt Tinlinn.—P. 23. 

This person was, in my younger days, the 
theme of many a fireside tale. He was a re- 
tainer of the Buccleuch family, and held for his 
Border service a small tower on the frontiers of 
Liddesdale. Watt was by profession a sutor, 
but by inclination and practice an archer and 
warrior. Upon occasion, the captain of Bew- 
castle, military governor of that wild district of 
Cumberland, is said to have made an incursion 
into Scotland, in which he was defeated, and 
forced to fly. Watt Tinlinn pursued him closely 
through a dangerous morass ; the captain, how- 
ever, gained the firm ground ; and, seeing Tin- 
linn dismounted and floundering in the bog, 
used these words of insult : — " Sutor Watt, 5'e 
cannot sew your boots ; the heels risp, and the 
seams rive."* — "If I cannot sew," retorted 
Tinlinn, discharging a shaft, which nailed the 
captain's thigh to the saddle, " if I cannot &evr 
I can yerk." f 

Note 26. 
Belted Will Howard.— -P. 23. 

Lord William Howard, third son of Thomas, 
Duke of Norfolk, succeeded to Naworth Castle, 
and a large domain annexed to it, in right of his 
wife Elizabeth, sister of George Lord Dacre, 



* Risp, creak. — Rive, tear, 
t Yerk, to twitch, as shoemakers do, in secur- 
ing the stitches of their work. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



561 



who died without heirs male, in the nth of 
Queen Elizabeth. By a poetical anachronism, 
he is introduced into the romance a few years 
earlier than he actually flourished. He was 
warden of the Western Marches : and, from the 
rigour with which he repressed the Border 
excesses, the name of Belted Will Howard is 
still famous in our traditions. 

Note 27. 

Lord D acre. — P. 23. 

The well-known name of Dacre is derived 
from the exploits of one of their ancestors at the 
siege of Acre, or Ptolemais, under Richard 
Coeur de Lion. 

Note 28. 

The German hackbut-men. — P. 23. 

In the wars with Scotland, Henry VIII. and 
his successors employed numerous bands of 
mercenary troops. At the battle of Pinky, there 
were in the English army six hundred hack- 
butters on foot, and two hundred on horseback, 
composed chiefly of foreigners. On the 27th of 
September, 1549, the Duke of Somerset, Lord 
Protector, writes thus to the Lord Dacre, warden 
of the West Marches: — "The Almains, in 
number two thousand, very valiant soldiers, 
shall be sent to you shortly from Newcastle, to- 
gether with Sir Thomas Holcroft, and with the 
force of your wardenry, (which we would were 
advanced to the most strength of horsemen that 
might be,) shall make the attempt to Lough- 
maben, being of no such strength but that it 
may be skailed with ladders, whereof, before- 
hand, we would you caused secretly some 
number to be provided ; or else undermined 
with the pyke-axe, and so taken : either to be 
kept for the King's Majesty, or otherwise to be 
defaced, and taken from the profits of the 
enemy. And in like manner the house of Car- 
laverock to be used." — History of Cumber- 
land, vol. i. Introd. p. lxi. 

Note 29. 

"Ready, aye ready " for the field. — P. 23. 

Sir Jonn Scott of Thirlestane flourished in 

the reign of James V., and possessed the estates 

of Thirlestane, Gamescleuch, &c, lying upon 

the river of Ettrick, and extending to St. Mary's 

Loch, at the head of Yarrow. It appears that 

when James had assembled his nobility and 

their feudal followers, at Fala, with the purpose 

I of invading England, and was, as is well known, 

disappointed by the obstinate refusal of his 

J peers, this baron alone declared himself ready 

I to follow the King wherever he should lead. In 

memory of his fidelity, James granted to his 

I family a charter of arms, entitling them to bear 

1 a border of fleurs-de-luce, similar to the tres- 

{ sure in the royal arms, with a bundle of spears 

1 for the crest ; motto, Ready, aye ready. 



Note 30. 
Their gathering word was Bellenden. — P. 25. 

Bellenden is situated near the head of Borth- 
wick water, and being in the centre of the pos- 
sessions of the Scotts, was frequently used as 
their place of rendezvous and gathering word. 

Note 31. 
That he may suffer march-treason /ain. — 

P. 27. 
Several species of offences, peculiar to the 
Border, constituted what was called march- 
treason. Among others, was the crime of 
riding, or causing to ride, against the opposite 
country during the time of truce. Thus, in an 
indenture made on the 25th day of March, 1334, 
betwixt noble lords Sirs Henry Percy, Earl of 
Northumberland, and Archibald Douglas, Lord 
of Galloway, a truce is agreed upon until the 
1st day of July; and it is expressly accorded, 
" Gif ony stellis authir on the ta part, or on the 
tothyr, that he shall be hanget or heofdit ; and 
gif ony company stellis any gudes within the 
trieux beforesayd, ane of that company sail be 
hanget or heofdit, and the remnant sail restore 
the guyds stolen in the dubble." — History of 
Westmoreland and Cumberland, Introd. p. 
xxxix. 

Note 32. 
Knighthood he took of Douglas' sword. — P. 27. 
The dignity of knighthood, according to the 
original institution, had this peculiarity, that it 
did not flow from the monarch, but could be 
conferred by one who himself possessed it, upon 
any squire who, after due probation, was found 
to merit the honour of chivalry. Latterly, this 
power was confined to generals, who were wont 
to create knights bannerets after or before an 
engagement. 

Note 33. 

When English blood swelFd Ancram's ford. — 

P. 27. 

The battle of Ancram Moor, or Penielheuch, 
was fought a. D. 1545. The English, com- 
manded by Sir Ralph Evers and Sir Brian 
Latoun, were totally routed, and both their 
leaders slain in the action. The Scottish army 
was commanded by Archibald Douglas, Earl of 
Angus, assisted by the Laird of Buccleuch and 
Norman Lesley. 

Note 34. 

For who, hi field or foray slack, 

Saw the blanche lio?i e'er fall back. — P. 28. 

This was the cognizance of the noble house 
of Howard in all its branches. The crest, or 
bearing, of a warrior, was often used as a 
nomme de guerre. 

Note 35. 

The Bloody Heart blazed in the van, 
Announcing Douglas, dreaded name. — P. 30. 

The chief of this potent race of heroes, about 

36 



4 



562 



APPENDIX. 



the date of the poem, was Archibald Douglas, 
seventh Earl of Angus, a man of great courage 
and activity. The Bloody Heart was the well- 
known cognizance of the House of Douglas, 
assumed from the time of good Lord James, to 
whose care Robert Bruce committed his heart, 
to be carried to the Holy Land. 

Note 36. 

And Siuinton laid the lance in rest, 
That tamed of yore the sparkling crest 
Of Clarence's Plantagenet. — P. 30. 

At the battle of Beauge, in France, Thomas, 
Duke of Clarence, brother to Henry V., was 
unhorsed by Sir John Swinton of Swinton, who 
distinguished him by a coronet set with precious 
stones, which he wore around his helmet. The 
family of Swinton is one of the most ancient 
in Scotland, and produced many celebrated 
warriors. 

Note 37. 

And shouting still, A Home! a Home ! — P. 30. 

The Earls of Home, as descendants of the 
Dunbars, ancient Earls of March, carried a 
lion rampant, argent ; but, as a difference, 
changed the colour of the shield from gules to 
vert, in allusion to Greenlaw, their ancient 
possession. The slogan, or war-cry, of this 
powerful family, was, " A Home ! a Home ! " 
It was anciently placed in an escrol above the 
crest. The helmet is armed with a lion's head 
erased gules, with a cap of state gules, turned 
up ermine. 

The Hepburns, a powerful family in East 
Lothian, were usually in close alliance with the 
Homes. The chief of this clan was Hepburn, 
Lord of Hailes ; a family which terminated in 
the too famous Earl of Bothwell. 

Note 38. 

'Tiuixt truce and war, such sudden change 
Was not iiifrequent, nor held strange, 
In the old Border-day. — P. 30. 

Notwithstanding the constant wars upon the 
Borders, and the occasional cruelties which 
marked the mutual inroads, the inhabitants on 
either side do not appear to have regarded each 
other with that violent and personal animosity 
which might have been expected. On the con- 
trary, like the outposts of hostile armies, they 
often carried on something resembling friendly 
intercourse, even in the middle of hostilities ; 
and it is evident, from various ordinances 
against trade and intermarriages, between Eng- 
lish and Scottish Borderers, that the govern- 
ments of both countries were jealous of their 
cherishing too intimate a connection. 



Loud 



Note 39. 

on the darkening plain, 

holfr, whoop, or whistle ran, 



As lauds, their stragglers to regain, 

Give the shrill watchword of their clan. — 
P. 3T. 
Patten remarks, with bitter censure, the dis- 
orderly conduct of the English Borderers, who 
attended the Protector Somerset on his expe- 
dition against Scotland. 

Note 40. 

She wrought not by forbidden spell. — P. 35. 

Popular belief, though contrary to the doc- 
trines of the Church, made a favourable dis- 
tinction betwixt magicians, and necromancers, 
or wizards ; the former were supposed to com- 
mand the evil spirits, and the latter to serve, 
or at least to be in league and compact with, 
those enemies of mankind. The arts of sub- 
jecting the demons were manifold ; sometimes 
the fiends were actually swindled by the ma- 
gicians.* 

Note 41. 

A merlin sat upon her wrist, 

Held by a leash of silken twist. — P. 36. 

A merlin, or sparrow-hawk, was actually 
carried by ladies of rank, as a falcon was, in 
time of peace, the constant attendant of a 
knight or baron. See Latham on Falconry. 
— Godscroft relates, that when Mary of Lor- 
raine was regent, she pressed the Earl of Angus 
to admit a royal garrison into his Castle of 
Tantallon. To this he returned no direct an- 
swer; but, as if apostrophizing a goss-hawk, 
which sat on his wrist, and which he was feed- 
ing during the Queen's speech, he exclaimed, 
"The devil's in this greedy glede, she will 
never be full." Hume's History of tlie House 
of Do7iglas, 1743, vol. ii. p. 131. Barclay 
complains of the common and indecent practice 
of bringing hawks and hounds into churches. 



Note 42. 

And princely peacock's gilded train, 

And o'er the boar-head garnished brave. 

P. 36. 

The peacock, it is well known, was con 
sidered, during the times of chivalry, not 
merely as an exquisite delicacy, but as a dish 
of peculiar solemnity. After beingroasted.it 
was again decorated with its plumage, and a 
sponge, dipped in lighted spirits of wine, was 
placed in its bill. When it was introduced on 
days of grand festival, it was the signal for the 
adventurous knights to take upon them vows 
to do some deed of chivalry, " before the 
peacock and the ladies." 

The boar's head was also a usual dish of 
feudal splendour. In Scotland it was some- 
times surrounded with little banners displaying 
the colours and achievements of the baron at 



.! 



* There are some amusing German and Irish 
stories to that effect. 



THE LA Y OF THE LAST MINSTREL. 



563 



whose board it was served.— Pinkerton's 
History, vol. i. p. 432. 

Note 43. 

Smote, with his gauntlet, stout Hun thill. — 

P. 36. 
The Rutherfords of Hunthill were an an- 
cient race of Border Lairds, whose names 
occur in history, sometimes as defending the 
frontier against the English, sometimes as dis- 
turbing the peace of their own country. Dickon 
Draw- the-s word was son to the ancient war- 
rior, called in tradition the Cock of Hunthill, 
remarkable for leading into battle nine sons, 
gallant warriors, all sons of the aged champion. 

Note 44. 
■ bit his glove. — P. 36. 
To bite the thumb, or the glove, seems not 
to have been considered, upon the Border, 
as a gesture of contempt, though so used by 
Shakspeare, but as a pledge of mortal revenge. 
It is yet remembered, that a young gentleman 
of Teviotdale, on the morning after a hard 
drinking-bout, observed that he had bitten 
his glove. He instantly demanded of his 
companion with whom he had quarrelled ? 
And, learning that he had had words with one 
of the party, insisted on inslant satisfaction, 
asserting that though he remembered nothing 
of the dispute, yet he was sure he never would 
have bit his glove unless he had received some 
unpardonable insult. He fell in the duel, 
which was fought near Selkirk, in 1721. 

Note 45. 

old A Ibert Grame, 

TJie Minstrel of that ancient name. — P. 37. 

" John Graeme, second son of Malice, Earl 
of Monteith, commonly sirnamed John with 



the Bright Sword, upon some displeasure risen 
against him at court, retired with many of his 
clan and kindred into the English Borders, in 
the reign of King Henry the Fourth, where 
they seated themselves ; and many of their 
posterity have continued ever since. Mr. 
Sandford, speaking of them, says (which in- 
deed was applicable to most of the Borderers 
on both sides), ' They were all stark moss- 
troopers, and arrant thieves : both to England 
and Scotland outlawed ; yet sometimes con- 
nived at, because they gave intelligence forth 
of Scotland, and would raise 400 horse at any 
time upon a raid of the English into Scotland. 
A saying is recorded of a mother to her son, 
(which is now become proverbial,) Ride, Row- 
ley, hough's € t lie pot: that is, the last piece of 
beef was in the pot, and therefore it was high 
time for him to go and fetch more.' " — Intro- 
duction to Hie History of Cumberland. 

Note 46. 
Who lias not lieard of Surrey's fame ? — P. 37. 

The gallant and unfortunate Henry Howard, 
Earl of Surrey, was unquestionably the most 
accomplished cavalier of his time ; and his 
sonnets display beauties which would do 
honour to a more polished age. He was be- 
headed on Tower-hill in 1546 ; a victim to the 
mean jealousy of Henry VIII., who could not 
bear so brilliant a character near his throne. 

The song of the supposed bard is founded on 
an incident said to have happened to the Earl 
in his travels. Cornelius Agrippa, the cele- 
brated alchemist, showed him in a looking- 
glass the lovely Geraldine, to whose service he 
had devoted his pen and his sword. The 
■vision represented her as indisposed, and re- 
clining upon a couch, reading her lover's verses 
by the light of a waxen taper. 



MARMION. 



Note i. 

As when the Champion of the Lake 

Enters Morgana' s fated house, 

Or in the Chapel Perilous, 

Despising spells and demons' force, 

Holds converse with the unburied corse. — P. 47. 

The romance of the Morte Arthur contains a 
sort of abridgment of the most celebrated ad- 
ventures of the Round Table ; and, being writ- 
ten in comparatively modern language, gives 
the general reader an excellent idea of what 
romances of chivalry actually were. It has 



also the men* of being written in pure old 
English ; and many of the wild adventures 
which it contains are told with a simplicity 
bordering upon the sublime. Several of these 
are referred to in the text : and I would have 
illustrated them by more full extracts, but as 
this curious work is about to be republished, 
I confine myself to the tale of the Chapel 
Perilous, and of the quest of Sir Launcelot 
after the Sangreal. 

" Right so Sir Launcelot departed, " and 
when he came to the Chapell Perilous, he 
alighted downe, and tied his horse to a little 



564 



APPENDIX. 



gate. And as soon as he was within the 
churchyard, he saw, on the front of thechapell, 
many f;ii re rich shields turned upside downe ; 
and many of the shields Sir Launcelot had 
seene knights have before ; with that he saw 
stand by him thirtie great knights, more, by a 
yard, than any man that ever he had seene, 
and all those grinned and gnashed at Sir 
Launcelot ; and when he saw their counte- 
nance, hee dread them sore, and so put his 
shield afore him, and tooke his sword in his 
hand, ready to doe battaile ; and they were all 
armed in black harneis, ready, with their 
shields and swords drawn. And when Sir 
Launcelot would have gone through them, 
they scattered on every side of him, and gave 
him the way ; and therewith he waxed all bold, 
and entered into the chapell, and then hee saw 
no light but a dimme lampe burning, and then 
was he ware of a corps covered with a cloath 
of silke ; then Sir Launcelot stooped downe, 
and cut a piece of that cloth away, and then it 
fared under him as the earth had quaked a 
little, whereof he was afeard, and then hee saw 
a faire sword lye by the dead knight, and that 
he gat in his hand, and hied him out of the 
chappell. As soon as he was in the chappell- 
yerd, all the knights spoke to him with a 
grimly voice, and said, ' Knight, Sir Launce- 
lot, lay that sword from thee, or else thou shalt 
die.' — 'Whether I live or die,' said Sir Launce- 
lot, ' with no great words get yee it againe, 
therefore fight for it and yee list.' Therewith 
he passed through them ; and, beyond the chap- 
pell-yerd, there met him a faire damosell, and 
said, ' Sir Launcelot, leave that sword behind 
thee, or thou wilt die for it.' — ' I will not leave 
it,' said Sir Launcelot, ' for no threats.' — ' No ? ' 
said she ; 'and ye did leave that sword, Queen 
Guenever should ye never see. ' — ' Then were I 
a fool and I would leave this sword,' said Sir 
Launcelot. — 'Now, gentle knight,' said the 
damosell, 'I require thee to kiss me once.' — 
' Nay,' said Sir Launcelot, ' that God forbid ! ' — 
' Well, sir,' said she, ' and thou haddest kissed 
me thy life dayes had been done, but now, 
alas ! ' said she, ' I have lost all my labour ; for 
I ordeined this chappell for thy sake, and for 
Sir Gawaine ; and once I had Sir Gawaine 
within it ; and at that time he fought with that 
knight which there lieth dead in yonder chap- 
pell, Sir Gilbert the bastard, and at that time 
hee smote off Sir Gilbert the bastard's left 
hand. And so, Sir Launcelot, now I tell thee, 
that I have loved thee these seaven yeare ; but 
there may no woman have thy love butQueene 
Guenever ; but sithen I may not rejoyice thee 
to have thy body alive, I had kept no morejoy 
in this world but to have had thy dead body ; 
and I would have balmed it and served, and so 
have kept it in my life daies, and daily I should 
have clipped thee, and kissed thee, in the 
despite of Queen Guenever.' — 'Yee say well,' 
said Sir Launcelot ; ' Jesus preserve me from 
your subtill craft.' And therewith he took his 
horse, and departed from her." 



Note 2. 

A sinful man, and uncon/ess'd, 

He took the Sangreal's holy quest, 

And, slumbering, saw the vision high, 

He might fiot view with waking eye. — P. 47. 

One day, when Arthur was holding a high 
feast with his knights of the Round Table, the 
Sangreal, or vessel out of which the last pass- 
over was eaten (a precious relic, which had 
long remained concealed from human eyes, 
because of the sins of the land), suddenly ap- 
peared to him and all his chivalry. The con- 
sequence of this vision was, that all the knights 
took on them a solemn vow to seek the San- 
greal. But alas ! it could only be revealed to 
a knight at once accomplished in earthly 
chivalry, and pure and guiltless of evil convers- 
ation. All Sir Launcelot's noble accomplish- 
ments were therefore rendered vain by his 
guilty intrigue with Queen Guenever or Ganore; 
and in his holy quest he encountered only 
such disgraceful disasters as that which fol- 
lows : — 

"But Sir Launcelot rode overthwart and 
endlong in a wild forest, and held no path but 
as wild adventure led him ; and at the last he 
came unto a stone crosse, which departed two 
wayes, in wast land ; and, by the crosse, was 
a stone that was of marble ; but it was so dark, 
that Sir Launcelot might not well know what 
it was. Then Sir Launcelot looked by him, 
and saw an old chappell, and there he wend to 
have found people. And so Sir Launcelot tied his 
horse to a tree, and there he put off his shield, 
and hung it upon a tree, and then hee went 
unto the chappell doore, and found it wasted 
and broken. And within he found a faire 
altar, full richly arrayed with cloth of silk, and 
there stood a faire candlestick, which beare six 
great candles, and the candlesticke was of 
silver. And when Sir Launcelot saw this light, 
hee had a great will for to enter into the chap- 
pell, but he could find no place where hee 
might enter. Then was hee passing heavie and 
dismaied. Then hee returned, and came againe 
to his horse, and tooke off his saddle and his 
bridle, and let him pasture, and unlaced his 
helme, and ungirded his sword, and laid him 
downe to sleepe upon his shield, before the 
crosse. 

"And so hee fell on sleepe; and, halfe 
waking and halfe sleeping, he saw come by 
him two palfreys, both faire and white, the 
which beare a litter, therein lying a sicke 
knight. And when he was nigh the crosse, he 
there abode still. All this Sir Launcelot saw 
and beheld, for hee slept not verily, and hee 
heard him say, ' O sweete Lord, when shall 
this sorrow leave me, and when shall the holy 
vessell come by me, where through I shall be 
blessed, for I have endured thus long for little 
trespasse ! ' And thus a great while complained 
the knight, and alwaies Sir Launcelot heard it. 
With that Sir Launcelot saw the candlesticke, 



MARMIOX. 



565 



with the fire tapers, come before the crosse ; 
but he could see nobody that brought it. Also 
there came a table of silver, and the holy 
vessell of the Sancgreall, the which Sir Launce- 
lot had seen before that time in King Pet- 
chour's house. And therewithall the sicke 
knight set him upright, and held up both his 
hands, and said, ' Faire sweete Lord, which is 
here within the holy vessell, take heede to 
mee, that I may bee hole of this great ma- 
lady!' And therewith upon his hands, and 
upon his knees, he went so nigh, that he 
touched the holy vessell, and kissed it : And 
anon he was hole, and then he said, ' Lord 
God, I thank thee, for I am healed of this 
malady.' Soo when the holy vessell had been 
there a great while, it went into the chappelle 
againe, with the candlesticke and the light, so 
that Sir Launcelot wist not where it became, 
for he was overtaken with sinne, that hee had 
no power to arise against the holy vessell, 
wherefore afterward many men said of him 
shame. But he tooke repentance afterward. 
Then the sicke knight dressed him upright, and 
kissed the crosse. Then anon his squire 
brought him his armes, and asked his lord how 
he did. 'Certainly,' said hee, 'I thanke God 
right heartily, for through the holy vessell I am 
healed : But I have right great mervaile of 
this sleeping knight, which hath had neither 
grace nor power to awake during the time that 
this holy vessell hath beene here present.'—' I 
dare it right well say,' said the squire, ' that 
this same knight is defouled with some manner 
of deadly sinne, whereof he has never con- 
fessed.' — 'By my faith,' said the knight, 
' whatsoever he be, he is unhappie ; for, as I 
deeme, hee is of the fellowship of the Round 
Table, the which is entered into the quest of 
the Sancgreall.' — ' Sir,' said the squire, 'here 
I have brought you all your armes, save your 
helme and your sword ; and, therefore, by mine 
assent, now may ye take this knight's helme 
and his sword ; ' and so he did. And when he 
was cleane armed, he took Sir Launcelot's 
horse, for he was better than his owne, and so 
they departed from the crosse. 

" Then anon Sir Launcelot awaked, and set 
himselfe upright, and he thought him what hee 
had there seene, and whether it were dreames 
or not ; right so he heard a voice that said, 
' Sir Launcelot, more hardy than is the stone, 
and more bitter than is the wood, and more 
naked and bare than is the liefe of the fig-tree, 
therefore go thou from hence, and withdraw 
thee from this holy place ; ' and when Sir 
Launcelot heard this, he was passing heavy, 
and wist not what to doe. And so he departed 
sore weeping, and cursed the time that he was 
borne ; for then he deemed never to have had 
more worship ; for the words went unto his 
heart, till that he knew wherefore that hee was 
so called." 



Note 3. 

And Dryden, in immortal strain, 

Had raised the Table Round again — P. 47. 

Dryden's melancholy account of his pro- 
jected Epic Poem, blasted by the selfish and 
sordid parsimony of his patrons, is contained in 
an " Essay on Satire," addressed to the Earl 
of Dorset, and prefixed to the Translation of 
Juvenal. After mentioning a plan of supplying 
machinery from the guardian angels of king- 
doms, mentioned in the Book cf Daniel, he 
adds :— 

"Thus, my lord, I have, as briefly as I 
could, given your lordship, and by you the 
world, a rude draught of what I have been 
long labouring in my imagination, and what 
I had intended to have put in practice ; 
(though far unable for the attempt of such a 
poem ;) and to have left the stage, to which 
my genius never much inclined me, for a 
work which would have taken up my life in 
the performance of it. This, too, I had in- 
tended chiefly for the honour of my native 
country, to which a poet is particularly obliged. 
Of two subjects, both relating to it, I was 
doubtful whether I should choose that of King 
Arthur conquering the Saxons, which, being 
farther distant in time, gives the greater scope 
to my invention; or that of Edward the Black 
Prince, in subduing Spain, and restoring it to 
the lawful prince, though a great tyrant, Don 
Pedro the Cruel ; which, for the compass of 
time, including only the expedition of ©ne year, 
for the greatness of the action, and its answer- 
able event, for the magnanimity of the English 
hero, opposed to the ingratitude of the person 
whom he restored, and for the many beautiful 
episodes which I had interwoven with the 
principal design, together with the characters 
of the chiefest English persons, (wherein, after 
Virgil and Spenser, I would have taken occasion 
to represent my living friends and patrons of the 
noblest families, and also shadowed the events 
of future ages in the succession of our imperial 
line,) — with these helps, and those of the 
machines which I have mentioned, I might 
perhaps have done as well as some of my pre- 
decessors, or at least chalked out a way for 
others to amend my errors in a like design ; but 
being encouraged only with fair words by King 
Charles II., my little salary ill paid, and no 
prospect of a future subsistence, I was then dis- 
couraged in the beginning of my attempt ; and 
now age has overtaken me, and want, a more 
insufferable evil, through the change of the 
times, has wholly disabled me." 

Note 4. 

Their theme the merry minstrels made, 
Of Ascapart, and Bevis bold. — P. 48. 

The "History of Bevis of Hampton" is 
abridged by my friend Mr. George Ellis, with 
that liveliness which extracts amusement even 



566 



APPENDIX. 



out of the most rude and unpromising of our 
old tales of chivalry. Ascapart, a most import- 
ant personage in the romance, is thus described 
in an extract : — 

/' This geaunt was mighty and strong, 
And full thirty foot was long. 
He was bristled like a sow ; 
A foot he had between each brow ; 
His lips were great, and hung aside ; 
His eyen were hollow, his mouth was wide ; 
Lothly he was to look on than. 
And liker a devil than a man. 
His staff was a young oak, 
Hard and heavy was his stroke." 

Specimens of Metrical Romances, 
vol. ii. p. 136. 

I am happ}- to say, that the memory of Sir 
Bevis is still fragrant in his town of Southamp- 
ton ; the gate of which is sentinelled by the 
effigies of that doughty knight-errant and his 
gigantic associate. 

Note 5. 

Day set on Norham s castled steep, 
And Tweed 's fair river, broad and deep, &c. 

P. 48. 
The ruinous castle of Norham (anciently 
called Ubbanford 1 is situated on the southern 
bank of the Tweed, about six miles above Ber- 
wick, and where that river is still the boundary 
between England and Scotland. The extent of 
its ruins, as well as its historical importance, 
shows it to have been a place of magnificence, 
as well as strength. Edward I. resided there 
when he was created umpire of the dispute con- 
cerning the Scottish succession. It was re- 
peatedly taken and retakeji during the wars 
between England and Scotland ; and, indeed, 
scarce any happened, in which it had not a 
principal share. Norham Castle is situated on 
a steep bank, which overhangs the river. The 
repeated sieges which the castle had sustained 
rendered frequent repairs necessary. In 1164, 
it was almost rebuilt by Hugh Pudsey, Bishop 
of Durham, who added a huge keep, or donjon ; 
notwithstanding which, King Henry II., in 
1 174, took the castle from the bishop, and com- 
mitted the keeping of it to William de Neville. 
After this period it seems to have been chiefly 
garrisoned by the King, and considered as a 
royal fortress. The Greys of Chillingham 
Castle were frequently the castellans, or cap- 
tains of the garrison : yet, as the castle was 
situated in the patrimony of St. Cuthbert, the 
property was in the see of Durham till the Re- 
formation. After that period it passed through 
various hands. At the union of the crowns, it 
was in the possession of Sir Robert Carey (after- 
wards Earl of Monmouth), for his own life, and 
that of two of his sons. After King James's 
accession. Carey sold Norham Castle to George 
Home, Earl of Dunbar, for 6000/. See his 
curious Memoirs, published by Mr. Constable 
of Edinburgh. 



According to Mr. Pinkerton there is, in the 
British Museum, Cal. B. 6. 216, a curious 
memoir of the Dacres on the state of Norham 
Castle in 1522, not long after the battle of 
Flodden. The inner ward, or keep, is repre- 
sented as impregnable : — " The provisions are 
three great vats of salt eels, forty-four kine, 
three hogsheads of salted salmon, forty quarters 
of grain, besides many cows and four hundred 
sheep, lying under the castle-wall nightly ; but 
a number of the arrows wanted feathers, and a 
good Fletcher {i.e. maker of arrows) was re- 
quired."— History of Scotland, V9I. ii. p. 201, 
note. 

The ruins of the castle are at present con- 
siderable, as well as picturesque. They consist 
of a large shattered tower, with many vaults, 
and fragments of other edifices enclosed within 
an outward wall of great circuit. 

Note 6. 

The battled towers, t/ie donjon keep. — P. 48. 

It is perhaps unnecessary to remind my 
readers that the donjon, in its proper significa- 
tion, means the strongest part of a feudal castle ; 
a high square tower, with walls of tremendous 
thickness, situated in the centre of the other 
buildings, from which, however, it was usually 
detached. Here, in case of the outward de- 
fences being gained, the garrison retreated to 
make their last stand. The donjon contained 
the great hall, and principal rooms of state for 
solemn occasions, and also the prison of the for- 
tress ; from which last circumstance we derive 
the modern and restricted use of the word 
dungeon. Ducange [voce Dunjo) conjectures 
plausibly, that the name is derived from these 
keeps being usually built upon a hill, which in 
Celtic is called Dun. Borlase supposes the 
word came from the darkness of the apartments 
in these towers, which were thence figuratively 
called Dungeons ; thus deriving the ancient 
word from the modern application of it. 

Note 7. 

Well was lie am? d from head to Jieel, 
In mail and plate of Milan steel. — P. 49. 

The artists of Milan were famous in the 
Middle Ages for their skill in armoury, as ap- 
pears from the following passage, in which 
Froissart gives an account of the preparations 
made by Henry, Earl of Hereford, afterwards 
Henry IV., and Thomas, Duke of Norfolk. 
Earl Marischal, for their proposed combat in 
the lists at Coven try : — " These two lords made 
ample provision of all things necessary for the 
combat ; and the Earl of Derby sent off mes- 
sengers to Lombardy, to have armour from Sir 
Galeas, Duke of Milan. The Duke complied 
with joy, and gave the knight, called Sir 
Francis, who had brought the message, the 
choice of all his armour for the Earl of Derby. 
When he had selected what he wished for in 
plated and mail armour, the Lord of Milan, out 



MARMION. 



567 



of his abundant love for the Earl, ordered four 
of the best armourers in Milan to accompany 
the knight to England, that the Earl of Derby 
might be more completely armed." — Johnes' 
Froissart, vol. iv. p. 597. 

Note 8. 

Who checks at me, to death is dight. — P. 49. 

The crest and motto of Marmion are bor- 
rowed from the following story : — Sir David de 
Lindsay, first Earl of Crauford, was, among 
other gentlemen of quality, attended, during a 
visit to London, in 1390, by Sir William Dalzell, 
who was, according to my authority, Bower, 
not only excelling in wisdom, but also of a lively 
wit. Chancing to be at the court, he there saw 
Sir Piers Courtenay, an English knight, famous 
for skill in tilting, and for the beauty of his 
person, parading the palace, arrayed in a new 
mantle, bearing for device an embroidered 
falcon, with this rhyme, — 

"I bear a falcon, fairest of flight, 
Whoso pinches at her, his death is dight * 
In graith." t 

The Scottish knight, being a wag, appeared 
next day in a dress exactly similar to that of 
Courtenay, but bearing a magpie instead of the 
falcon, with a motto ingeniously contrived to 
rhyme to the vaunting inscription of Sir 
Piers : — 

" I bear a pie picking at a piece, 
Whoso picks at her, I shall pick at his nese,t 
In faith." 

This affront could only.be expiated by a just 
with sharp lances. In the course, Dalzell left 
his helmet unlaced, so that it gave way at the 
touch of his antagonist's lance, and he thus 
avoided the shock of the encounter. This 
happened twice : in the third encounter the 
handsome Courtenay lost two of his front teeth. 
As the Englishman complained bitterly of Dal- 
zell's fraud in not fastening his helmet, the 
Scottishman agreed to run six courses more, 
each champion staking in the hand of the King 
two hundred pounds, to be forfeited, if, on 
entering the lists, any unequal advantage should 
be detected. This being agreed to, the wily 
Scot demanded that Sir Piers, in addition to the 
loss of his teeth, should consent to the extinc- 
tion of one of his eyes, he himself having lost 
an eye in the fight of Otterburn. As Courtenay 
demurred to this equalization of optical powers, 
Dalzell demanded the forfeit ; which, after 
much altercation, the King appointed to be 
paid to him, saying, he surpassed the English 
both in wit and valour. This must appear to 
the reader a singular specimen of the humour of 
that time. I suspect the Jockey Club would 
have given a different decision from Henry IV. 



Prepared. t Armour. % Nose. 



Note 9. 

They haiVd Lord Marmion .' 
TJicy haiVd him Lord of Fonte?iayc, 
Of Lutterward, and Scrivelbaye, 

Of Tamworth tower and town. — P. 49. 

Lord Marmion, the principal character of the 
present romance, is entirely a fictitious person- 
age. In earlier times, indeed, the family of 
Marmion, Lords of Fontenay, in Normandy, 
was highly distinguished. Robert de Marmion, 
Lord of Fontenay, a distinguished follower of 
the Conqueror, obtained a grant of the castle 
and town of Tamworth, and also of the manor 
of Scrivelby, in Lincolnshire. One or both of 
these noble possessions was held by the honour- 
able service of being the Royal Champion, as 
the ancestors of Marmion had formerly been to 
the Dukes of Normandy. But after the castle 
and demesne of Tamworth had passed through 
four successive barons from Robert, the family 
became extinct in the person of Philip de 
Marmion, who died in 20th Edward I. without 
issue male. He was succeeded in his castle of 
Tamworth by Alexander de Freville, who 
married Mazera, his grand-daughter. Baldwin 
de Freville, Alexander's descendant, in the 
reign of Richard II., by the supposed tenure of 
his castle of Tamworth, claimed the office of 
Royal Champion, and to do the service apper- 
taining ; namely, on the day of coronation,' to 
ride, completely armed, upon a barbed horse, 
into Westminster Hall, and there to challenge 
the combat against any who would gainsay the 
King's title. But this office was adjudged to 
Sir John Dymoke, to whom the manor of 
Scrivelby had descended by another of the co- 
heiresses of Robert de Marmion ; and it re- 
mains in that family, whose representative is 
Hereditary Champion of England at the present 
day. The family and possessions of Freville 
have merged in the Earls of Ferrars. I have 
not, therefore, created a new family, but only 
revived the titles of an old one in an imaginary 
personage. 

It was one of the Marmion family, who, in 
the reign of Edward II., performed that chival- 
rous feat before the very castle of Norham, 
which Bishop Percy has woven into his beauti- 
ful ballad, " The Hermit of Warkworth."— The 
story is thus told by Leland : — 

"The Scottes cam yn to the marches of Eng- 
land, and destroyed the castles of Werk and 
Herbotel, and overran much of Northumber- 
land marches. 

" At this tyme, Thomas Gray and his friendes 
defended Norham from the Scottes. 

"It were a wonderful processe to declare, what 
mischefes cam by hungre and asseges by the 
space of xi years in Northumberland ; for the 
Scottes became so proude, after they had got 
Berwick, that they nothing esteemed the Eng- 
lishmen. 

"About this tyme there was a great feste 
made yn Lincolnshir, to which came many 



568 



APPENDIX. 



f gentlemen and ladies ; and amonge them one 
ady brought a heaulme for a man of were, 
with a very riche creste of gold, to William 
Mannion, knight, with a letter of commande- 
ment of her lady, that he should go into the 
daungerest place in England, and ther to let the 
heaulme be seene and known as famous. So 
he went to Norham ; whither, within 4 days of 
cumming, cam Philip Moubray, guardian of 
Berwicke, having yn his bande 40 men of 
armes, the very flour of men of the Scottish 
marches. 

" Thomas Gray, capitayne of Norham, seynge 
this, brought his garison afore the barriers of 
the castel, behind whom cam William, richly 
arrayed, as al glittering in gold, and wearing 
the heaulme, his lady's present. 

"Then said Thomas Gray to Marmion, 'Sir 
Knight, ye be cum hither to fame your helmet : 
mount up on yowr horse, and ride lyke a valiant 
man to yowr foes even here at hand, and I for- 
sake God if I rescue not thy body deade or 
aly ve, or I myself wyl dye for it.' 

" Whereupon he toke his cursere, and rode 
among the throng of enemyes ; the which layed 
sore stripes on him, and pulled him at the last 
out of his sadel to the grounde. 

" Then Thomas Gray, with al the hole gar- 
rison, lette prick yn among the Scottes, and so 
wondid them and their horses, that they were 
overthrowan; and Marmion, sore beten, was 
horsid agayn, and, with Gray, persewed the 
Scottes yn chase. There were taken fifty horse 
of price ; and the women of Norham brought 
them to the foote men to follow the chase." 

Note 10. 

Sir Hugh the Heron bold, 
Baron of Twisel, and of Ford, 

And Captai?i of the Hold. — P. 50. 

Were accuracy of any consequence in a fic- 
titious narrative, this castellan's name ought to 
have been William ; for William Heron of Ford 
was husband to the famous Lady Ford, whose 
siren charms are said to have cost our James 
IV. so dear. Moreover, the said William Heron 
was, at the time supposed, a prisoner in Scot- 
land, being surrendered by Henry VIII., on ac- 
count of his share in the slaughter of Sir Robert 
Ker of Cessford. His wife, represented in the 
text as residing at the Court of Scotland, was, 
in fact, living in her own Castle at Ford. — See 
Sir Richard Heron's curious Genealogy of the 
Heron Family. 

Note ii. 

fames backed the cause of that mock prince, 
Warbeck, that Flemish counterfeit, 
Who oti the gibbet paid the cheat. 
Then did I march with Surrey 's power, 
What time we razed old Ay Ion tower. — P. 51. 

The story of Perkin Warbeck, or Richard, 
Duke of York, is well known. In 1496 he was 
received honourably in Scotland; and James 



IV., after conferring upon him in marriage his 
own relation, the Lady Catharine Gordon, made 
war on England in behalf of his pretensions. 
To retaliate an invasion of England, Surrey 
advanced into Berwickshire at the head of con- 
siderable forces, but retreated, after taking the 
inconsiderable fortress of Ay ton. 

Note 12. 

/ trow, 

Horham can find you guides enow ; 
For here be some have pricked as far, 
On Scottish ground, as to Dunbar; 
Have drunk the monks of St. Bothan's ale, 
And driven the beeves of Lauderdale ; 
Harried the wives of Greenlaw's goods, 
And given them light to set their hoods. — 
P. 51. 
The garrisons of the English castles of Wark, 
Norham, and Berwick, were, as may be easily 
supposed, very troublesome neighbours to Scot- 
land. Sir Richard Maitland of Ledington 
wrote a p»em, called " The Blind Baron's Com- 
fort ; " when his barony of Blythe, in Lauder- 
dale was harried by Rowland Foster, the Eng- 
lish captain of Wark, with his company, to the 
number of 300 men. They spoiled the poetical 
knight of 5000 sheep, 200 nolt, 30 horses and 
mares; the whole furniture of his house of 
Blythe, worth 100 pounds Scots (8/. 6s. 8d.), and 
everything else that was portable. 

Note 13. 

The priest of Shoreswood—he could rein? 

The wildest war-horse in your train. — P. 51. 

This churchman seems to have been akin to 
Welsh, the vicar of St. Thomas of Exeter, a 
leader among the Cornish insurgents in 1549. 
"This man," says Holinshed, "had many good 
things in him. He was of no great stature, but 
well set, and mightilie compact. He was a very 
good wrestler ; shot well, both in the longbow 
and also in the crossbow ; he handled his hand- 
gun and peece very well ; he was a very good 
woodman, and a hardie, and such a one as would 
not give his head for the polling, or his beard for 
the washing. He was a companion in any exer- 
cise of activitie, and of a courteous and gentle 
behaviour. He descended of a good honest pa- 
rentage, being borne at Peneverin in Cornwall ; 
and yet, in this rebellion, an arch-captain and a 
principal doer." — Vol. iv. p. 958, 4to edition. 
This model of clerical talents had the misfortune 
to be hanged upon the steeple of his own church. 

Note 14. 

that Grot where Olives nod, 

Where, darling of each heart and eye, 
From all the youth of Sicily 

Saint Rosalie retired to God. — P. 52. 
" Santa Rosalia was of Palermo, and born of 
a very noble family, and when very young ab- 
horred so much the vanities of this world, and 
avoided the converse of mankind, resolving to 



MARMIOX. 



569 



dedicate herself wholly to God Almighty, that 
she, by Divine inspiration, forsook her father's 
house, and never was more heard of till her 
body was found in that cleft of a rock, on that 
almost inaccessible mountain, where now the 
chapel is built ; and they affirm she was carried 
up there by the hands of angels ; for that place 
was not formerly so accessible (as now it is in 
the days of the Saint : and even now it is a very 
bad, and steepy, and breakneck way. In this 
frightful place, this holy woman lived a great 
many years, feeding only on what she found 
growing on that barren mountain, and creeping 
into a narrow and dreadful cleft in a rock, 
which was always dropping wet, and was her 
place of retirement as well as prayer ; having 
worn out even the rock with her knees in a cer- 
tain place, which is now open'd on purpose to 
show it to those who come here. This chapel is 
very richly adorn'd ; and on the spot where the 
Saint's dead body was discovered, which is just 
beneath the hole in the rock, which is opened 
on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue 
of marble, representing her in a lying posture, 
railed in all about with fine iron and brass work ; 
and the altar, on which they say mass, is built 
just over it." — Voyage to Sicily and Malta, by 
Mr. John Dryden son to the poetj, p. 107. 

Note 15. 

Friar John 

Himself still sleeps before his beads 

Have marked ten aves, and two creeds. — 

P. 52- 

Friar John understood the soporific virtue of 
his beads and breviary as well as his name- 
sake in Rabelais. " But Gargantua could not 
sleep by any means, on which side soever he 
turned himself. Whereupon the monk said to 
him, 'I never sleep soundly but when I am at 
sermon or prayers. Let us therefore begin, 
you and I, the seven penitential psalms, to try 
whether you shall not quickly fall asleep.' The 
conceit pleased Gargantua very well ; and be- 
ginning the first of these psalms, as soon as they 
came to B.ati quorum, they fell asleep, both 
the one and the other." 

Note 16. 

Tlte summoned Palmer came in place. — P. 52. 

A Palmer, opposed to a Pilgrim, was one 
who made it his sole business to visit different 
holy shrines ; travelling incessantly, and sub- 
sisting by charity ; whereas the Pilgrim retired 
to his usual home and occupations, when he 
had paid his devotions at the particular spot 
which was the object of his pilgrimage. The 
Palmers seem to have been the Questionarii of 
the ancient Scottish canons 1242 and 1296. 

Note 17. 

To fair Si. Andrews bound, 
Within the ocean-cave to pray, 



Where good Saint Rule his holy lay. 
From midnight to tlie daiun of day, 
Sung to the billows' sound. — P. 53. 

St. Regulus (Scottice, St. Ru!e\ a monk of 
Patrae, in Achaia, warned by a vision, is said, 
a.d. 370, to have sailed westward, until he 
landed at St. Andrews in Scotland, where he 
founded a chapel and tower. The latter is still 
standing, and, though we may doubt the pre- 
cise date of its foundation, is certainly one of 
the most ancient edifices in Scotland. A cave, 
nearly fronting the ruinous castle of the Arch- 
bishops of St. Andrews, bears the name of this 
religious person. It is difficult of access ; and 
the rock in which it is hewn is washed by the 
German Ocean. It is nearly round, about ten 
feet in diameter, and the same in height. On 
one side is a sort of stone altar ; on the other 
an aperture into an inner den, where the miser- 
able ascetic, who inhabited this dwelling, pro- 
bably slept. At full tide, egress and regress 
are hardly practicable. As Regulus first colon- 
ized the metropolitan see of Scotland, and con- 
verted the inhabitants in the vicinity, he has 
some reason to complain, that the ancient name 
of Killrule [Cella Reguh) should have been 
superseded, even in favour of the tutelar saint 
of Scotland. The reason of the change was, 
that St. Rule is said to have brought to Scot- 
land the relics of St. Andrew. 

Note 18. 

Saint Fillan's blessed well, 

Whose spring can frenzied dreams dispel, 
And t/ie crazed brain restore.— P. 53. 

St. Fillan was a Scottish saint of some reput- 
ation. Although Popery is, with us, matter of 
abomination, yet the common people still retain 
some of the superstitions connected with it. 
There are in Perthshire several wells and springs 
dedicated to St. Fillan, which are still places of 
pilgrimage and offerings, even among the Pro- 
testants. They are held powerful in cases of 
madness ; and, in some of very late occurrence, 
lunatics have been left all night bound to the 
holy stone, in confidence that the saint would 
cure and unloose them before morning. 

Note 19. 

Tite scenes are desert now, and bare, 
WJiere flourish 'd once a forest fair. — P. 53. 

Ettrick Forest, now a range of mountainous 
sheep-walks, was anciently reserved for the 
pleasure of the royal chase. Since it was dis- 
parked, the wood has been, by degrees, al- 
most totally destroyed, although, wherever 
protected from the sheep copses soon arise 
without any planting. Wh^n the Kin.; hunted 
there, he often summoned the array of the 
country to meet and assist his sport. Thus, in 
1528, James V. made proclamation to all lords, 
barons, gentlemen, landwardmen, and free- 
holders, that they should compear at Edin- 



57o 



APPENDIX. 



burgh, with a month's victuals, to pass with the 
king where he pleased, to danton the thieves 
of Tiviotdale, Annandale, Liddisdale, and other 
parts of that country ; and also warned all gen- 
tlemen that had good dogs to bring them, that 
he might hunt in the said country as he pleased : 
The whilk the Earl of Argyle, the Earl of 
Huntley, the Earl of Athole, and so all the rest 
of the gentlemen of the Highland, did, and 
brought their hounds with them in like manner, 
to hunt with the King, as he pleased. 

" The second day of June the King past out 
of Edinburgh to the hunting, with many of the 
nobles and gentlemen of Scotland with him, to 
the number of twelve thousand men ; and then 
past to Meggitland, and hounded and hawked 
all the country and bounds ; that is to say, 
Crammat, Pappertlaw, St. Marylaws, Carlav- 
rick, Chapel, Ewindoores, and Longhope. I 
heard say, he slew, in these bounds, eighteen 
score of harts."* 

These huntings had, of course, a military 
character, and attendance upon them was a 
part of the duty of a vassal. The act for abol- 
ishing ward or military tenures in Scotland, 
enumerates the services of hunting, hosting, 
watching, and warding, as those which were in 
future to be illegal. 

Taylor, the water-poet, has given an account 
of the mode in which these huntings were con- 
ducted in the Highlands of Scotland, in the 
seventeenth century, having been present at 
Braemar upon such an occasion : — 

" There did I find the truly noble and right 
honourable lords, John Erskine, Earl of Mar ; 
James Stewart, Earl of Murray ; George Gor- 
don, Earl of Engye, son and heir to the Mar- 
quis of Huntley ; James Erskine, Earl of 
Buchan ; and John, Lord Erskine, son and 
heir to the Earl of Mar, and their Countesses, 
with my much honoured, and my last assured 
and approved friend, Sir William » Murray, 
knight of Abercarney, and hundreds of others, 
knights, esquires, and their followers ; all and 
every man, in general, in one habit, as if Ly- 
curgus had been there, |and made laws of 
equality ; for once in the year, which is the 
whole month of August, and sometimes part of 
September, many of the nobility and gentry of 
the kingdom (for their pleasure) do come into 
these Highland countries to hunt ; where they 
do conform themselves to the habit of the 
Highlandmen, who, for the most part, speak 
nothing but Irish ; and, in former time, were 
those people which were called the Red-shanlis. 
Their habit is — shoes, with but one sole a-piece; 
stockings (which they call short hose), made of 
a warm stuff of divers colours, which they call 
tartan ; as for breeches, many of them, nor 
their forefathers, never wore any, but a jerkin of 
the same stuff that their hose is of; their gar- 
ters being bands or wreaths of hay or straw ; 



* Pitscottie's History of Scotland, folio 
edition, p. 143. 



with a plaid about their shoulders ; which is a 
mantle of divers colours, much finer and lighter 
stuff than their hose ; with blue flat caps on 
their heads ; a handkerchief, knit with two 
knots, about their necks ; and thus are they at- 
tired. Now their weapons are — long bowes 
and forked arrows, swords, and targets, harque- 
busses, muskets, durks, and Lochaber axes. 
With these arms I found many of them armed 
for the hunting. As for their attire, any man, 
of what degree soever, that comes amongst 
them, must not disdain to wear it ; for, if they 
do, then they will disdain to hunt, or willingly 
to' bring in their dogs ; but if men be kind unto 
them, and be in their habit, then are they con- 
quered with kindness, and the sport will be 
plentiful. This was the reason that I found so 
many noblemen and gentlemen in those shapes. 
But to proceed to the hunting : — 

" My good Lord of Marr having put me into 
that shape, I rode with him from his house, 
where I saw the ruins of an old castle, called 
the Castle of Kindroghit. It was built by King 
Malcolm Canmore (for a hunting-house), who 
reigned in Scotland, when Edward the Con- 
fessor, Harold, and Norman William, reigned 
in England. I speak of it, because it was the 
last house I saw in those parts ; for I was the 
space of twelve days after, before I saw either 
house, corn-field, or habitation for any creature 
but deer, wild horses, wolves, and such like 
creatures, — which made me doubt that I should 
never have seen a house again. 

"Thus, the first day, we travelled eight 
miles, where there were small cottages, built 
on purpose to lodge in, which they call Lon- 
quhards. I thank my good Lord Erskine, he 
commanded that I should always be lodged in 
his lodging : the kitchen being always on the 
side of a bank : many kettles and pots boiling, 
and many spits turning and winding, with great 
variety of cheer, — as venison baked; sodden, 
rost, and stewed beef; mutton, goats, kid, 
hares, fresh salmon, pigeons, hens, capons, 
chickens, partridges, muir-coots, heath-cocks, 
caperkelHes, and termagants ; good ale, sacke, 
white and claret, tent (or allegant), with most 
potent aquavitae. 

"All these, and more than these, we had 
continually in superfluous abundance, caught 
by falconers, fowlers, fishers, and brought by 
my lord's tenants and purveyors to victual our 
camp, which consisteth of fourteen or fifteen 
hundred men and horses. The manner of the 
hunting is this : Five or six hundred men do 
rise early in the morning, and they do disperse 
themselves divers ways, and seven, eight, or 
ten miles compass, they do bring, or chase in, 
the deer in many herds, (two, three, or four 
hundred in a herd), to such or such a place, as 
the noblemen shall appoint them ; then, when 
day is come, the lords and gentlemen of their 
companies do ride or go to the said places, 
sometimes wading up to the middles, through 
burns and rivers ; and then, they being come 
to the place do lie down on the ground, till 



MARMIOX. 



57* 



those foresaid scouts, which are called the 
Tinkhell, do bring down the deer ; but, as the 
proverb says of the bad cook, so these tinkhell 
men do lick their own fingers ; for, besides 
their bows and arrows, which they carry with 
them, we can hear, now and then, a harquebuss 
or a musket go off, which they do seldom dis- 
charge in vain. Then, after we had staid 
there three hours, or thereabouts, we might 
perceive the deer appear on the hills round 
about us their h< a show like a 

wood ^ followed close by the tink- 

hell, are chased down into the valley where we 
lay .- then all the valley, on each side, being 

aid with a hundred couple of strong Irish 
greyhounds, they are all let loose, as occasion 
serves, upon the herd of deer, that with dogs, 
guns, arrows, durks, and daggers, in the space 
of two hours, fourscore fat deer were slain ; 

. after are disposed of some one way, and 
some another, twenty and thirty miles, and 
more than enough left for us, to make merry 
withall, at our rendezvous." 

ra 20. 

By lo • be. — P. 55. 

This beautiful sheet of water forms the reser- 
voir from which the Yarrow takes its course. It 
is connected with a smaller lake, called the 
Loch of the Lowes, and surrounded by moun- 
tains. In the winter, it is still frequented by 
flights of wild swans ; hence my friend Mr. 
Wordsworth's lines : — 

" The swan on sweet St. Mary's Lake 
Floats double, swan and shadow." 

Near the lower extremity of the lake, are 
the ruins of Dryhope tower, the birth-place of 
Mary Scott, daughter of Philip Scott, of Dry- 
hope, and famous by the traditional name of 
the Flower of Yarrow. She was married to 
Walter Scott of Harden, no less renowned for 
his depredations, than his bride for her beauty. 
Her rojnantic appellation was, in later days, 
with equal justice, conferred on Miss Mary 
Lilias Scott, the last of the elder branch of the 
Harden family. The author well remembers 
the talent and spirit of the latter Flower of 
Yarrow, though age had then injured the 
charms which procured her the name. The 
words usually sung to the air of "Tweedside," 
beginning, " What beauties does Flora dis- 
close," were composed in her honour. 

Note 21. 

in feudal strife-, a foe, 

Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low. — P. 55. 

The chapel of St. Mary of the Lowes (de 
5 situated on the eastern side of the 
lake, to which it gives name. It was injured 
by the clan of Scott, in a feud with the Crans- 
touns ; but continued to be a place of worship 
during the seventeenth century. The vestiges 



of the building can now scarcely be traced ; but 
the burial-ground is still used as a cemetery. A 
funeral, in a spot so very retired, has an un- 
commonly striking effect. The vestiges of the 
chaplain's house are yet visible. Being in a 
high situation, it commanded a full view of the 
lake, with the opposite mountain of Bourhope, 
belonging, with the lake itself, to Lord Napier. 
On the left hand is the tower of Dryhope, 
mentioned in a preceding note. 

Note 22. 

The Wizard's gr: 

That Wizard Priest 's, whose cones are thrust 
From company of holy dust. — P. 55. 

At one corner of the burial-ground of the 
demolished chapel, but without its precincts, 
is a small mound, called Binram's Corse, 
where tradition deposits the remains of a 
necromantic priest, the former tenant of the 
chaplainry. 

Note 23. 

Some ruder and more savage scene, 
Like t/ial -which frozvns round dark Loch-skene. 

P. 56. 
Loch-skene is a mountain lake, of consider- 
able size, at the head of the Moffat-water. 
The character of the scenery is uncommonly 
savage ; and the earn, or Scottish eagle, has, 
for many ages, built its nest yearly upon an 
islet in the lake. Loch-skene discharges itself 
into a brook, which, after a short and precipi- 
tate course, falls from a cataract of immense 
height, and gloomy grandeur, called from its 
appearance, the " Gray Mare's Tail." The 
" Giant's Grave," afterwards mentioned, is a 
sort of trench, which bears that name, a little 
way from the foot of the cataract. It has the 
appearance of a battery, designed to command 
the pass. 

Note 24. 
St. Cuthberfs Holy Isle.—V. 56. 

Lindisfarne, an isle on the coast of North- 
umberland, was called Holy Island, from the 
sanctity of its ancient monastery, and from its 
having been the episcopal seat of the see of 
Durham during the early ages of British 
Christianity. A succession of holy men held 
that office : but their merits were swallowed 
up in the superior fame of St. Cuthbert, who 
was sixth Bishop of Durham, and who be- 
stowed the name of his "patrimony" upon 
the extensive property of the see. The ruins 
of the monastery upon Holy Island betoken 
great antiquity. The arches are, in general, 
strictly Saxon, and the pillars which support 
them, short, strong, and massy. In some 
places, however, there are pointed windows, 
which indicate that the building has been re- 
paired at a period long subsequent to the 
original foundation. The exterior ornaments 
of the building, being of a light sandy stone, 
have been wasted, as described in the text 



57^ 



APPENDIX. 



- 



Lindisfarne is not properly an island, but 
rather, as the venerable Bede has termed it, 
a semi-isle ; for, although surrounded by the 
sea at full tide, the ebb leaves the sands dry 
between it and the opposite coast of Northum- 
berland, from which it is about three miles 
distant. 

Note 25. 

in their convent ceil, 

A Saxon princess once did dwell, 
The lovely Edeifled.—V. 58. 

She was the daughter of King Oswy, who, 
in gratitude to Heaven for the great victory 
which he won in 655, against Penda, the Pagan 
King of Mercia, dedicated Edelfleda, then but 
a year old, to the service of God, in the mo- 
nastery of Whitby, of which St. Hilda was 
then abbess. She afterwards adorned the 
place of her education with great magnificence. 

Note 26. 

of thousand snakes, each one 

Was changed into a coil 0/ stone, 

WJien holy Hilda pray 'd; 
Tfiey told, how sea-fowls' pinions fail, 
As over Whitby's towers they sail. — P. 59. 

These two miracles are much insisted upon 
by all ancient writers who have occasion to 
mention either Whitby or St. Hilda. The relics 
of the snakes which infested the precincts of 
the convent, and were, at the abbess's prayer, 
not only beheaded, but petrified, are still found 
about the rocks, and are termed by Protestant 
fossilists, Ammonite. 

The other miracle is thus mentioned by Cam- 
den : " It is also ascribed to the power of her 
sanctity, that these wild geese, which, in the 
winter, fly in great flocks to the lakes and 
rivers unfrozen in the southern parts, to the 
great amazement of every one, fall down sud- 
denly upon the ground, when they are in their 
flight over certain neighbouring fields here- 
bouts ; a relation I should not have made, if I 
had not received it from several credible men. 
But those who are less inclined to heed super- 
stition attribute it to some occult quality in the 
ground, and to somewhat of antipathy between 
it and the geese, such as they say is betwixt 
wolves and scylla roots : For that such hidden 
tendencies and aversions, as we call sympathies 
and antipathies, are implanted in many things 
by provident Nature for the preservation of 
them, is a thing so evident that everybody 
grants it." Mr. Charlton, in his History of 
Whitby, points out the true origin of the fable, 
from the number of sea-gulls that, when flying 
from a storm, often alight near Whitby ; and 
from the woodcocks, and other birds of passage, 
who do the same upon their arrival on shore, 
after a long flight. 



Note 27. 

His body's resting-place, of old, 
How oft their Patron changed, they told.— 

P. 59- 

St. Cuthbert was, in the choice of his sepul- 
chre, one of the most mutable and unreasonable 
saints in the Calendar. He died a.d. 688, in 
a hermitage upon the Fame Islands, having 
resigned the bishopric of Lindisfarne, or Holy 
Island, about two years before. His body was 
brought to Lindisfarne, where it remained until 
a descent of the Danes, about 793, when the 
monastery was nearly destroyed. The monks 
fled to Scotland with what they deemed their 
chief treasure, the relics of St. Cuthbert. The 
Saint was, however, a most capricious fellow- 
traveller ; which was the more intolerable, as, 
like Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea, he journeyed 
upon the shoulders of his companions. They 
paraded him through Scotland for several 
years, and came as far west as Whithern, in Gal- 
loway, whence they attempted to sail for Ire- 
land, but were driven back by tempests. He 
at length made a halt at Norham ; from thence 
he went to Melrose, where he remained sta- 
tionary for a short time, and then caused him- 
self to be launched upon the Tweed in a stone 
coffin, which landed him at Tilmouth, in 
Northumberland. 

The resting-place of the remains of this 
Saint is not now matter of uncertainty. So re- 
centlj 7 as 17th May, 1827, 1139 years after his 
death, their discovery and disinterment were 
effected. Under a blue stone in the middle of 
the shrine of St. Cuthbert, at the eastern ex- 
tremity of the choir of Durham Cathedral, there 
was then found a walled grave, containing the 
coffins of the Saint. The first, or outer one, 
was ascertained to be that of 1541, the second of 
1041 : the third, or inner one, answering in every 
particular to the description of that of 698, was 
found to contain, not indeed, as had been 
averred then, and even until 1539, the incorrupt- 
ible body, but the entire skeleton of the Saint ; 
the bottom of the grave being perfectly dry, 
free from offensive smell, and without the 
slightest symptom that a human body had ever 
undergone decomposition within its walls. The 
skeleton was found swathed in five silk robes 
of emblematical embroidery, the ornamental 
parts laid with gold leaf, and these again 
covered with a robe of linen. Beside the skele- 
ton were also deposited several gold and silvet 
insignia, and other relics of the Saint. 

[Speaking of the burial of Cuthbert, Mr. 
Hartshorne says, " Aldhune was at that time 
bishop of the, previously for a long period, wan- 
dering See of Lindisfarne. But we now hear 
no more of that ancient name as the seat of 
Episcopacy. A cathedral church, such as it 
was .... was speedily erected upon the 
hill of Durham. This church was consecrated, 
with much magnificence and solemnity, in the 
year 999." — History of Northumberla?id, p. 
227.] 



MARMION. 



573 



Note 28. 

Even Scotland's dauntless king and heir, &c. 
Be/ore his standard fled. — P. 59. 

Every one has heard, that when David I., 
with his son Henry, invaded Northumberland 
in 1 1 36, the English host marched against them 
under the holy banner of St. Cuthbert ; to the 
efficacy of which was imputed the great victory 
which they obtained in the bloody battle of 
Northallerton, or Cutonmoor. The conquerors 
were at least as much indebted to the jealousy 
and intractability of the different tribes who 
composed David's army ; among whom, as men- 
tioned in the text, were the Galwegians, the 
Britons of Strath-Clyde, the men of Teviotdale 
and Lothian, with many Norman and German 
warriors, who asserted the cause of the Empress 
Maud. See Chalmers' Caledonia, vol. i. p. 
622 ; a most laborious, curious, and interesting 
publication, from which considerable defects of 
style and manner ought not to turn aside the 
Scottish antiquary. 

Note 29. 

'Twos he, to vindicate his reign, 
Edged A If red s falchion on the Dane, 
And turn'd the Conqueror back again. — 

P. 59- 
Cuthbert, we have seen, had no great reason 
to spare the Danes, when opportunity offered. 
Accordingly, I find, in Simeon of Durham, that 
the Saint appeared in a vision to Alfred, when 
lurking in the marshes of Glastonbury, and 
promised him assistance and victory over his 
heathen enemies ; a consolation which, as was 
reasonable, Alfred, after the victory of Ashen- 
down, rewarded by a royal offering at the shrine 
of the Saint. As to William the Conqueror, 
the terror spread before his army, when he 
marched to punish the revolt of the Northum- 
brians in 1096, had forced the monks to fly once 
more to Holy Island with the body of the Saint. 
It was, however, replaced before William left 
the north ; and, to balance accounts, the Con- 
queror having intimated an indiscreet curiosity 
to view the Saint's body, he was, while in the 
act of commanding the shrine to be opened, 
seized with heat and sickness, accompanied 
with such a panic terror, that, notwithstanding 
there was a sumptuous dinner prepared for him, 
he fled without eating a morsel, (which the 
monkish historian seems to have thought no 
small part both of the miracle and the penance,) 
and never drew his bridle till he got to the river 
Tees. 

Note 30. 

Saint Cuthbert sits, and toils to frame 
TJie sea-born beads that bear his name. — 

P- 59. 

Although we do not learn that Cuthbert was, 

during his life, such an artificer as Dunstan, his 

brother in sanctity, yet, since his death, he has 



acquired the reputation of forging those En- 
trochi which are found among the rocks of 
Holy Island, and pass there by the name of St. 
Cuthbert's Beads. While at this task, he is 
supposed to sit during the night upon a certain 
rock, and use another as his anvil. This story 
was perhaps credited in former days ; at least 
the Saint's legend contains some not more 
probable. 

Note 31. 

Old Colwulf— V. 59. 

Ceowulf, or Colwulf, King of Northumber- 
land, flourished in the eighth century. He was 
a man of some learning ; for the venerable Bede 
dedicates to him his " Ecclesiastical History." 
He abdicated the throne about 738, and retired 
to Holy Island, where he died in the odour of 
sanctity. Saint as Colwulf was, however, I 
fear the foundation of the penance vault does 
not correspond with his character ; for it is re- 
corded among his memorabilia, that, finding 
the air of the island raw and cold, he indulged 
the monks, whose rule had hitherto confined 
them to milk or water, with the comfortable 
privilege of using wine or ale. If any rigid an- 
tiquary insists on this objection, he is welcome 
to suppose the penance-vault was intended, by 
the founder, for the more genial purposes of a 
cellar. 

Note 32. 

Tynemouth's haughty Prioress. — P. 60. 

That there was an ancient priory at Tyne- 
mouth is certain. Its ruins are situated on a 
high rocky point ; and, doubtless, many a vow 
was made to the shrine by the distressed mari- 
ners who drove towards the iron-bound coast of 
Northumberland in stormy weather. It was 
anciently a nunnery ; for Virca, abbess of Tyne- 
mouth, presented St. Cuthbert (yet alive) with 
a rare winding-sheet, in emulation of a holy 
lady called Tuda, who had sent him a coffin : 
But, as in the case of Whitby, and of Holy 
Island, the introduction of nuns at Tynemouth 
in the reign of Henry VIII. is an anachronism. 
The nunnery at Holy Island is altogether fic- 
titious. Indeed, St. Cuthbert was unlikely to 
permit such an establishment ; for, notwith- 
standing his accepting the mortuary gifts above- 
mentioned, and his carrying on a visiting ac- 
quaintance with the Abbess of Coldingham, he 
certainly hated the whole female sex ; and, in 
revenge of a slippery trick played to him by an 
Irish princess, he, after death, inflicted severe 
penances on such as presumed to approach 
within a certain distance of his shrine. 

Note 33. 

On those the wall -was to enclose, 
Alive within tlie tomb. — P. 61. 

It is well known that the religious, who broke 
their vows of chastity, were subjected to the 
same penalty as the Roman vestals in a similar 
case. A small niche, sufficient to enclose their 



574 



APPENDIX. 



bodies, was made in the massive wall of the 
convent ; a slender pittance of food and water 
was deposited in it, and the awful words, Vade 
in Pace, were the signal for immuring the 
criminal. It is not likely that, in later times, 
this punishment was often resorted to ; but 
among the ruins of the Abbey of Coldingham 
were some years ago discovered the remains of 
a female skeleton, which, from the shape of the 
niche and position of the figure, seemed to be 
that of an immured nun. 

Note 34. 
The village inn.— P. 65. 

The accommodations of a Scottish hostelrie, or 
inn, in the 16th century, may be collected from 
Dunbar's admirable tale of "The Friars of 
Berwick." Simon Lawder, " the gay ostliei ," 
seems to have lived very comfortably ; and his 
wife decorated her person with a scarlet kirtle, 
and a belt of silk and silver, and rings upon her 
fingers ; and feasted her paramour with rabbits, 
capons, partridges, and Bordeaux wine. At 
least, if the Scottish inns were not good, it was 
not for want of encouragement from the legis- 
lature ; who, so early as the reign of James I., 
not only enacted that in all boroughs and fairs 
there be hostellaries, having stables and cham- 
bers, and provision for man and horse, but by 
another statute ordained that no man, travelling 
on horse or foot, should presume to lodge any- 
where except in these hostellaries ; and that no 
person, save innkeepers, should receive such 
travellers, under the penalty of forty shillings, 
for exercising such hospitality. But, in spite of 
these provident enactments, the Scottish hos- 
tels are but indifferent, and strangers continue 
to find reception in the houses of individuals. < 

Note 35. 
The death of a dear friend. — P. 67. 
Among other omens to which faithful credit 
h given among the Scottish peasantry, is what 
is called the "dead-bell," explained by my 
friend James Hogg to be that tinkling in the 
ears which the country people regard as the 
secret intelligence of some friend's decease. 



Note 36. 
The Goblin Hall- -P. 



68. 



A vaulted hall under the ancient castle of 
Gifford or Yester, (for it bears either name in- 
differently,) the construction of which has from 
a very remote period been ascribed to magic. 
The statistical Account of the Parish of Garvald 
and Baro gives the following account of the 
present state of this castle and apartment : — 
"Upon a peninsula, formed by the water of 
Hopes on the east, and a large rivulet on 
the west, stands the ancient castle of Yester. 
Sir David Dalrymple, in his Annals, relates, 
that ' Hugh Gifford de Yester died in 1267 ; 
that in his castle there was a capacious cavern, 



formed by magical art, and called in the country 
Bo-Hall, i. e. Hobgoblin Hall.' A staircase 
of twenty-four steps led down to this apart- 
ment, which is a large and spacious hall, with 
an arched roof; and though it had stood for so 
many centuries, and been exposed to the exter- 
nal air for a period of fifty or sixty years, it is 
still as firm and entire as if it had only stood a 
few years. From the floor of this hall, another 
staircase of thirty-six steps leads down to a pit 
which hath a communication with Hopes-water. 
A great part of the walls of this large and 
ancient castle are still standing. There is a tra- 
dition that the castle of Yester was the last 
fortification, in this country, that surrendered 
to General Gray, sent into Scotland by Pro- 
tector Somerset." — Statistical Account, vol. 
xiii. I have only to add, that, in 1737, the 
Goblin Hall was tenanted by the Marquis of 
Tweeddale's falconer, as I learn from a poem 
by Boyse, entitled "Retirement," written upon 
visiting Yester. It is now rendered inaccessi- 
ble by the fall of the stair. 



Note 37. 

There flcated Haco's banner trim 
Above Norweyan warriors grim.— 



P. 68. 



In 1263, Haco, King of Norway, came into 
the Frith of Clyde with a powerful armament, 
and made a descent at Largs, in Ayrshire. 
Here he was encountered and defeated, on the 
2nd October, by Alexander III. Haco retreated 
to Orkney, where he died soon after this dis- 
grace to his arms. There are still existing, near 
the place of battle, many barrows, some of 
which, having been opened, were found, as 
usual, to contain bones and urns. 



Note 38. 
Upon his breast a pentacle.- 



-P. 69. 



" A pentacle is a piece of fine linen, folded 
with five corners, according to the five senses, 
and suitably inscribed with characters. This 
the magician extends towards the spirits which 
he invokes, when they are stubborn and rebel- 
lious, and refuse to be conformable unto the 
ceremonies and rites of magic." — See the Dis- 
courses, &c, in Reginald Scott's Discwery of 
Witchcraft, ed. 1665, p. 66. 

Note 39. 

As lorn -upon that blessed night, 

When yawning graves and dying groan 

Proclaim'd Hell's empire overthrown.— 

P. 69. 

It is a popular article of faith that those who 
are born on Christmas, or Good Friday, have 
the power of seeing spirits, and even of com- 
manding them. The Spaniards imputed the 
haggard and downcast looks of their Philip II. 
to the disagreeable visions to which this privi- 
j lege subjected him. 






" 



MARMION. 



575 



Note 40. 

Yet still the knightly spear and shield* 
The Elfin warrior doth wield 

Upon the brown hill's breast. — P. 70. 

The following extract from the Essay upon 
the Fairv superstitions, in the "Minstrelsy of 
the Scotfreh Border," vol. ii., will show whence 
many of the particulars of the combat between 
Alexander III. and the Goblin Knight are 
derived : — 

Gervase of Tilbury, Otia Imperial, ap. Script. 
rer. Brunsvic. \so\. i. p. 797), relates the follow- 
ing^ popular story concerning a fairy knight : 
"Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a 
noble family in the vicinity of Wandelbury, in 
the bishopric of Ely. Among other stones 
related in the social circle of his friends, who, 
according to custom, amused each other by re- 
peating ancient tales and traditions, he was 
informed, that if any knight, unattended, en- 
tered an adjacent plain by moonlight, and chal- 
lenged an adversary to appear, he would be 
immediately encountered by a spirit in the form 
of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the ex- 
periment, and set out, attended by a single 
squire, whom he ordered to remain without the 
limits of the plain, which was surrounded by an 
ancient entrenchment. On repeating the chal- 
lenge, he was instantly assailed by an adver- 
sary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the 
reins of his steed. During this operation, his 
ghostly opponent sprung up, and darting his 
spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him 
in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with 
the horse, which he committed to the care of 
his servants. The horse was of a sable colour, 
as well as his whole accoutrements, and appa- 
rently of great beauty and vigour. He remained 
with his keeper till cock-crowing, when, with 
eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, 
and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert 
perceived that he was wounded, and that one 
of his steel boots was full of blood." Gervase 
adds, that " as long as he lived, the scar of his 
wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the 
eve on which he encountered the spirit." Less 
fortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight, 
who, travelling by night with a single com- 
panion, "came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed 
under displayed banners. Despising the re- 
monstrances of his friend, the knight pricked 
forward to break a lance with a champion, who 
advanced from the ranks apparently in defiance. 
His companion beheld the Bohemian over- 
thrown, horse and man, by his aerial advers- 
ary ; and returning to the spot next morning, 
he found the mangled corpses of the knight 
and si 
P-554 



and steed." — Hierarchy of Blessed Angels, 



irps 
if 



Besides these instances of Elfin chivalry 
above quoted, many others might be alleged in ( 
support of employing fairy machinery in this [ 
manner. The forest of Glenmore, in the North 
Highlands, is believed to be haunted by a spirit 



called Lham-deatg, in the array of an ancient 
warrior { having a bloody hand, from which he 
takes his name. He insists upon those with 
whom he meets doing battle with him ; and the 
clergyman who makes up an account of the dis- 
trict, extant in the Macfarlane MS. in the Ad- 
vocates' Library, gravely assures us, that, in his 
time, Lham-dearg fought with chree brothers, 
whom he met in his walk, none of whom long 
survived the ghostly conflict. Barclay, in his 
" Euphormion," gives a singular account of an 
officer who had ventured, with his servant, 
rather to intrude upon a haunted house in a 
town in Flanders, than to put up with worse 
quarters elsewhere. After taking the usual 
precautions of providing fires, lights, and arms, 
they watched till midnight, when behold ! the 
severed arm of a man dropped from the ceiling ; 
this was followed by the .legs, the other arm, 
the trunk, and the head of the body, all separ- 
ately. The members rolled together, united 
themselves in the presence of the astonished 
soldiers, and formed a gigantic warrior, who 
defied them both to combat. Their blows, al- 
though they penetrated the body and ampu- 
tated the limbs of their strange antagonist, had, 
as the reader may easily believe, little effect on 
an enemy who possessed such powers of self- 
union ; nor did his efforts make more effectual 
impression upon them. How the combat ter- 
minated I do not exactly remember, and have 
not the book by me ; but I think the spirit made 
to the intruders on his mansion the usual pro- 
posal, that they should renounce their redemp- 
tion ; which being declined, he was obliged to 
retract. 

The northern champions of old were accus- 
tomed peculiarly to search for, and delight in, 
encounters with such military spectres. See a 
whole chapter on the subject, in Bartho- 
linus, De Causis cotitemptce Mortis a Dam's, 
P- 253- 

Note 41. 

Close to the hut, no more his own, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 
The morn may find the stiffettd swain. — 
P. 72. 
I cannot help here mentioning, that, on the 
night in which these lines were written, sug- 
gested, as they were, by a sudden fall of snow, 
beginning after sunset, an unfortunate man 
perished exactly in the manner here described, 
and his body was next morning found close to 
his own house. The accident happened within 
five miles of the farm of Ashestiel. 

Note 42. 

Forbes. — P. 72. 

Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, Baronet ; un- 
equalled, perhaps, in the degree of individual 
affection entertained for him by his friends, as 
well as in the general respect and esteem of 
Scotland at large. His "Life of Beattie," 
whom he befriended and patronized in life, as 



576 



APPENDIX. 



well as celebrated after his decease, was not 
long published, before the benevolent and affec- 
tionate biographer was called to follow the sub- 
ject of his narrative. This melancholy event 
very shortly succeeded the marriage of the 
friend, to whom this introduction is addressed, 
with one of Sir William's daughters. 

Note 43. 

Friar Rush. — P. 74. 

A lias "Will o' the Wisp." This personage 
is a strolling demon, or esprit follet, who, once 
upon a time, got admittance into a monastery 
as a scullion, and played the monks many 
pranks. He was also a sort of Robin Good- 
fellow, and Jack o' Lanthorn. It is in allusion 
to this mischievous demon that Milton's clown 
speaks, 

" She was pinch 'd, and pull'd, she said, 
And he by Friar's laut/iom led." 

" The History of Friar Rush " is of extreme 
rarity, and, for some time, even the existence 
of such a book was doubted, although it is ex- 
pressly alluded to by Reginald Scott, in his 
"Discovery of Witchcraft." I have perused a 
copy in the valuable library of my friend Mr. 
Heber ; and I observe, from Mr. Beloe's 
"Anecdotes of Literature," that there is one in 
the excellent collection of the Marquis of 
Stafford. 

Note 44. 
Sir David Lindesay of tJte Mount, 
Lord Lio7i King-at-arms. — P. 75. 

The late elaborate edition of Sir David 
Lindesay's Works, by Mr. George Chalmers, 
has probably introduced him to many of my 
readers. It is perhaps to be regretted, that the 
learned Editor had not bestowed more pains in 
elucidating his author, even although he should 
have omitted, or at least reserved, his disquisi- 
tions on the origin of the language used by the 
poet : But, with all its faults, his work is an 
acceptable present to Scottish antiquaries. Sir 
David Lindesay was well known for his early 
efforts in favour of the Reformed doctrines ; 
and, indeed, his play, coarse as it now seems, 
must have had a powerful effect upon the people 
of his age. I am uncertain if I abuse poetical 
licence, by introducing Sir David Lindesay in 
the character of Lion-Herald, sixteen years 
before he obtained that office. At any rate, I 
am not the first who has been guilty of the 
anachronism ; for the author of " Flodden Field " 
despatches Dallamount, which can mean no- 
body but Sir David de la Mont, to France, on 
the message of defiance from James IV. to 
Henry VIII. It was often an office imposed 
on the Lion King-at-arms, to receive foreign 
ambassadors ; and Lindesay himself did this 
honour to Sir Ralph Sadler, in 1539-40. In- 
deed, the oath of the Lion, in its first article, 
bears reference to his frequent employment 
upon royal messages and embassies. 



The office of heralds, in feudal times, being 
held of the utmost importance, the inauguration 
of the Kings-at-arms, who presided over their 
colleges, was proportionally solemn. In fact, 
it was the mimicry of a royal coronation, except 
that the unction was made with wine instead of 
oil. In Scotland, a namesake and kinsman of 
Sir David Lindesay, inaugurated in 1592, "was 
crowned by King James with the ancient crown 
of Scotland, which was used before the Scottish 
kings assumed a close crown ; " and, on occasion 
of the same solemnity, dined at the King's table, 
wearing the crown. It is probable that the 
coronation of his predecessor was not less 
solemn. So sacred was the herald's office, that, 
in 1515, Lord Drummond was by Parliament 
declared guilty of treason, and his lands for- 
feited, because he had struck with his fist the 
Lion King-at-arms, when he reproved him for 
his follies. Nor was he restored, but at the 
Lion's earnest solicitation. 

Note 45. 

Crichtoun Castle. — P. 75. 

A large ruinous castle on the banks of the 
Tyne, about ten miles from Edinburgh. As 
indicated in the text, it was built at different 
times, and with a very differing regard to 
splendour and accommodation. The oldest 
part of the building is a narrow keep, or tower, 
such as formed the mansion of a lesser Scottish 
baron ; but so many additions have been made 
to it, that there is now a large court-yard, sur- 
rounded by buildings of different ages. The 
eastern front of the court is raised above a 
portico, and decorated with entablatures, bear- 
ing anchors. All the stones of this front are 
cut into diamond facets, the angular projections 
of which have an uncommonly rich appearance. 
The inside of this part of the building appears 
to have contained a gallery of great length, and 
uncommon elegance. Access was given to it by 
a magnificent stair-case, now quite destroyed. 
The soffits are ornamented with twining cordage 
and rosettes ; and the whole seems to have been 
far more splendid than was usual in Scottish 
castles. The castle belonged originally to the 
Chancellor, Sir William Crichton, and probably 
owed to him its first enlargement, as well as its 
being taken by the Earl of Douglas, who im- 
puted to Crichton's counsels the death of his 
predecessor, Earl William, beheaded in Edin- 
burgh Castle, with his brother, in 1440. It is 
said to have been totally demolished .on that 
occasion ; but the present state of the ruin 
shows the contrary. In 1483, it was garrisoned 
by Lord Crichton, then its proprietor, against 
King James III., whose displeastire he had in- 
curred by seducing his sister Margaret, in re- 
venge, it is said, for the Monarch having dis- 
honoured his bed. From the Crichton family 
the castle passed to that of the Hepburns, Earls 
of Bothwell ; and when the forfeitures. of Stew- 
art, the last Earl of Bothwell, were divided, the 
barony and castle of Crichton fell to the share 



of the Earl of Buccleuch. They were after- 
wards the property of the Pringles of Clifton, 
and are now that of Sir John Callander, Baronet. 
It were to be wished the proprietor would take 
a little pains to preserve these splendid remains 
of antiquity, which are at present used as a fold 
for sheep, and wintering cattle ; although, per- 
haps, there are very few ruins in Scotland which 
display so well the style and beauty of ancient 
castle-architecture. The castle of Crichton has 
a dungeon vault, called the Massey Mole. The 
epithet, which is not uncommonly applied to the 
prisons of other old castles in Scotland, is of 
Saracenic origin. It occurs twice in the " Epis- 
tolce Jtiuerariw" of Tollius, " Career sulter- 
ramus, sive, ut Mauri appellant, Mazmokka," 
p. 147 ; and again, " Coguutur otnnes Captivi 
sul noctem in ergastula subterranea, quce 
Turcee Algezeraui vocant Mazmorras," p. 
243. The same word applies to the dungeons 
of the ancient Moorish castles in Spain, and 
serves to show from what nation the Gothic 
style of castle-building was originally derived. 

Note 46. 

Earl Adam Hepburn. — P. 76. 

He was the second Earl of Bothwell, and fell 
in the field of Flodden, where, according to an 
ancient English poet, he distinguished himself 
by a furious attempt to retrieve the day : — 

" Then on the Scottish part, right proud, 

The Earl of Bothwell then out brast, 

And stepping forth, with stomach good, 

Into the enemies' throng he thrast ; 
And Both-well I Bothwell ! cried bold, 

To cause his souldiers to ensue, 
But there he caught a wellcome cold, 

The Englishmen straight down him threw. 
Thus Haburn through his hardy heart 
His fatal fine in conflict found," &c*. 

Flodden Field, a Poem ; edited by 
H. Weber. Edin. 1S08. 

Adam was grandfather to James, Earl of 
Bothwell, too well known in the history of 
Queen Mary. 

Note 47. 

For that a messenger from heaven, 
I?i vain to James had cojinsel given, 
Against the English war. — P. 76. 

This story is told by Pitscottie with charac- 
teristic simplicity: — "The King, seeing that 
France could get no support of him for that 
time, made a proclamation, full hastily, through 
all the realm of Scotland, both east and west, 
south and north, as well in the isles as in the 
firm land, to all manner of men, between sixty 
and sixteen years, that they should be ready, 
within twenty days, to pass with him, with 
forty days' victual, and to meet at the Burrow- 
muir of Edinburgh, and there to pass forward 
where he pleased. His proclamations were 
hastily obeyed, contrary the Council of Scot- 



land's will ; but every man loved his prince so 
well that they would on no ways disobey him ; 
but every man caused make his proclamation 
so hastily, conform to the charge of the King's 
proclamation. 

" The King came to Lithgow, where he hap- 
pened to be for the time at the Council, very 
sad and dolorous, making his devotion to God, 
to send him good chance and fortune in his 
voyage. In this meantime there came a man, 
clad in a blue gown, in at the kirk door, and 
belted about him in a roll of linen cloth ; a pair 
of brotikings on his feet, to the great of his legs ; 
with all other hose and clothes conform thereto : 
but he had nothing on his head, but syde red 
yellow hair behind, and on his haffets, which 
wan down to his shoulders ; but his forehead 
was bald and bare. He seemed to be a man of 
two-and-fifty years, with a great pike-staff in 
his hand, and came first forward among the 
lords, crying and speiring for the King, saying, 
he desired to speak with him. While, at the 
last, he came where the King was sitting in the 
desk at his prayers ; but when he saw the King, 
he made him little reverence or salutation, but 
leaned down grofiling on the desk before him, 
and said to him in this manner, as after follows : 
— ' Sir King, my mother hath sent me to you, 
desiring you not to pass, at this time, where 
thou art purposed ; for if thou does, thou wilt 
not fare well in thy journey, nor none that 
passeth with thee. Further, she bade thee mell 
with no woman, nor use their counsel, nor let 
them touch thy body, nor thou theirs ; for, if 
thou do it, thou wilt be confounded and brought 
to shame.' 

" By this man had spoken thir words unto the 
Kings grace, the evening song was near done, 
and the King paused on thir words, studying to 
give him an answer ; but, in the meantime, be- 
fore the King's eyes, and in the presence of all 
the lords that were about him for the time, this 
man vanished away, and could no ways be seen 
or comprehended, but vanished away as he had 
been a blink of the sun, or a whip of the whirl- 
wind, and could no more be seen. I heard say, 
Sir David Lindesay Lyon-herauld, and John 
Inglis the marshal, who were, at that time, 
young men, and special servants to the King's 
grace, were standing presently beside the King, 
who thought to have laid hands on this man, 
that they might have speired further tidings at 
him : But all for nought ; they could not touch 
him; for he vanished away betwixt them, and 
was no more seen." 

Note 48. 
The wild buckbells.—P. 76. 
I am glad of an opportunity to describe the 
cry of the deer by another word than braying, 
although the latter has been sanctified by the 
use of the Scottish metrical translation of the 
Psalms. Bell seems to be an abbreviation of 
bellow. This sylvan sound conveyed great 
delight to our ancestors, chiefly, I suppose, 

37 



578 



APPENDIX. 



from association. A gentle knight in the reign 
of Henry VIII., Sir Thomas Wortley, built 
Wantley Lodge, in Wancliffe Forest, for the 
pleasure (as an ancient inscription testifies) of 
"listening to the hart's bell." 

Note 49. 
June saiu his father's overthrow. — P. 76. 

The rebellion against James III. was signal- 
ized by the cruel circumstance of his son's pre- 
sence in the hostile army. When the King saw 
his own banner displayed against him, and his 
son in the faction of his enemies, he lost the 
little courage he had ever possessed, fled out of 
the field, fell from his horse as it started at a 
woman and water-pitcher, and was slain, it is 
not well understood by whom. James IV., after 
the battle, passed to Stirling, and hearing the 
monks of the chapel-royal deploring the death 
of his father, their founder, he was seized with 
deep remorse, which manifested itself in severe 
penances. (See a following Note on stanza ix. 
of canto v.) The battle of Sauchie-burn, in 
which James III. fell, was fought 18th June, 
J488. 

Note 50. 
The Borough-moor. — P. 78. 

The Borough, or Common Moor of Edin- 
burgh, was of very great extent, reaching from 
the southern walls of the city to the bottom of 
Braid Hills. It was anciently a forest ; and, in 
that state, was so great a nuisance, that the in- 
habitants of Edinburgh had permission granted 
to them of building wooden galleries, projecting 
over the street, in order to encourage them to 
consume the timber, which they seem to have 
done very effectually. When James IV. mus- 
tered the array of the kingdom there, in 1513, 
the Borough-moor was, according to Hawthorn- 
den, "a field spacious, and delightful by the 
shade of many stately and aged oaks." Upon 
that, and similar occasions, the royal standard 
is traditionally said to have been displayed from 
the Hare-Stane, a high stone, now built into the 
wall, on the left hand of the high-way leading 
towards Braid, not far from the head of Burnts- 
field Links. The Hare-Stane probably derives 
its name from the British word Har, signifying 
an army. 

N0TE.51. 

— — in proud Scotland's royal shield, 
The ruddy lion-ramfd in gold. — P. 79. 

The well-known arms of Scotland. If you 
will believe Boethius and Buchanan, the double 
tressure round the shield, mentioned, counter 
fleur-de-lysed or lingued and armed azure, 
was first assumed by Echaius, King of Scotland, 
contemporary of Charlemagne, and founder of 
the celebrated League with France ; but later 
antiquaries make poor Eochy, or Achy, little 
better than a sort of King of Brentford, whom 
old Grig (who has also swelled into Gregorius 



Magnus) associated with himself in the im- 
portant duty of governing some part of the 
north-eastern coast of Scotland. 

Note 52. 

Caledonia's Queen is changed. — P. 81. J 

The Old Town of Edinburgh was secured on 
the north side by a lake, now drained, and on 
the south by ». wall, which there was some 
attempt to make defensible even so late as 
1745. The gates, and the greater part of the 
wall, have been pulled down, in the course of 
the late extensive and beautiful enlargement of 
the city. My ingenious and valued friend, Mr. 
Thomas Campbell, proposed to celebrate Edin- 
burgh under the epithet here borrowed. But 
the "Queen of the North" has not been so 
fortunate as to receive from so eminent a pen 
the proposed distinction. 

Note 53. 

The cloth-yard arrows. — P. 82. 

This is no poetical exaggeration. In some 
of the counties of England, distinguished for 
archery, shafts of this extraordinary length were 
actually used. Thus at the battle of Black- 
heath, between the troops of Henry VII. , and 
the Cornish insurgents, in 1496, the bridge of 
Dartford was defended by a picked band of 
archers from the rebel army, "whose arrows," 
says Holinshed, "were in length a full cloth 
yard. " The Scottish, according to Ascham, had 
a proverb, that every English archer carried 
under his belt twenty-four Scots, in allusion to 
his bundle of unerring shafts. 

Note 54. 

He saw the hardy burghers there 

March arm'd on foot with faces bare. — P. 82. 

The Scottish burgesses were, like yeomen, 
appointed to be armed with bows and sheaves, 
sword, buckler, knife, spear, or a good axe in- 
stead of a bow, if worth 100/. : their armour to 
be of white or bright harness. They wore white 
hats, i. e., bright steel caps, without crest or 
visor. By an act of James IV. their weapon- 
schawiugs are appointed to be held four times a 
year, under the aldermen or bailiffs. 

Note 55. 

On foot the yeomen too 

Each at his back {a slender store) 

His forty days' provision bore, 

His arms were halbert, axe, or spear, — P. 83. 

Bows and quivers were in vain recommended 
to the peasantry of Scotland, by repeated 
statutes ; spears and axes seem universally to 
have been used instead of them. Their defens- 
ive armour was the plate-jack, hauberk, or 
brigantine ; and their missile weapons cross- 
bows and culverins. All wore swords of excel- 
lent temper, according to Patten ; and a volum- 



MARMION. 



579 



inous handkerchief round their neck, "not for 
cold, but for cutting." The mace also was 
much used in the Scottish army. The old poem 
on the battle of Flodden mentions a band — 

" Who manfully did meet their foes, 
With leaden mauls, and lances long." 

When the feudal array of the kingdom was 
called forth, each man was obliged to appear 
with forty days' provision. When this was ex- 
pended, which took place before the battle of 
Flodden, the army melted away of course. 
Almost all the Scottish forces, except a few- 
knights, men-at-arms, and the Border-prickers, 
who formed excellent light cavalry, acted upon 
foot. 

Note 56. 
A banquet rich, and costly wines, 
To Marmion and his train. — P. 84. 

In all transactions of great or petty import- 
ance, and among whomsoever taking place, it 
would seem that a present of wine was a uni- 
form and indispensable preliminary. It was 
not to Sir John Falstaff alone that such an in- 
troductory preface was necessary, however well 
judged and acceptable on the part of Mr. Brook ; 
for Sir Ralph Sadler, while on an embassy to 
Scotland in 1539-40, mentions, with compla- 
cency, "the same night came Rothesay (the 
herald so called) to me again, and brought me 
wine from the King, both white and red." — 
Clifford's Edition, p. 39. 

Note 57. 

his iron-belt, 

That bound his breast in penance pain, 
In memory of his father slain. — P. 84. 

Few readers need to be reminded of this belt, 
to the weight of which James added certain 
ounces every year that he lived. Pitscottie 
founds his belief, that James was not slain in 
the battle of Flodden, because the English never 
had this token of the iron-belt to show to any 
Scottishman. The person and character of 
James are delineated according to our best 
historians. His romantic disposition, which led 
him highly to relish gaiety, approaching to 
license, was, at the same time, tinged with en- 
thusiastic devotion. These propensities some- 
times formed a strange contrast. He was wont, 
during his fits of devotion, to assume the dress, 
and conform to the rules, of the order of Fran- 
ciscans ; and when he had thus done penance 
for some time in Stirling, to plunge again into 
the itide of pleasure. Probably, too, with no 
unusual inconsistency, he sometimes laughed at 
the superstitious observances to which he at 
other times subjected himself. 



Note 58. 
Sir Hugh the Heroris wife. 



-P. 8 S . 



It has been already noticed (see note to 
Stanza xiii. of canto i.) that King James's ac- 



quaintance with Lady Heron of Ford did not 
commence until he inarched into England. ( )ur 
historians impute to the King's infatuated 
sion the delays which led to the fatal defeat of 
Flodden. The author of "The Genealogy of 
the Heron Family " endeavours, with laudable 
anxiety, to clear the Lady Ford from the 
scandal ; that she came and went, however, 
between the armies of James and Surrey is 
certain. See PlNKBRTON's History, and the 
authorities he refers to, vol. ii. p. 99. 

Note 59. 

The fair Queen of France 
Sent Jam a turquois ring and glove, 
And charged him, as her knight and love, 

For her to break a lance.— -P. 85. 

"Also the Queen of France wrote a love- 
letter to the King of Scotland, calling him her 
love, showing him that she had suffered much 
rebuke in France for the defending of his 
honour. She believed surely that he would 
recompense her again with some of his kingly- 
support in her necessity ; that is to say, that he 
would raise her an army, and come three foot 
of ground on English ground, for her sake. To 
that effect she sent him a ring off her finger, 
with fourteen thousand French crowns to pay 
his expenses." Pitscottie, p. no. — A tur- 
quois ring : probably this fatal gift is, with 
James's sword and dagger, preserved in the 
College of Heralds, London. 

Note 60. 

Archibald Bell-the-Cat.—V. 86. 

Archibald Douglas, Earl of Angus, a man 
remarkable for strength of body and mind, 
acquired the popular name of Bell-the-Cat, 
upon the following remarkable occasion : — 
James the Third, of whom Pitscottie complains 
that he delighted more in music, and "policies 
of building," than in hunting, hawking, and 
other noblejexercises, was so ill advised as to 
make favourites of his architects and musicians, 
whom the same historian irreverently terms 
masons and fiddlers. His nobility, who did not 
sympathize in the King's respect for the fine 
arts, were extremely incensed at the honours 
conferred on those persons, particularly on 
Cochrane, a mason, who had been created Earl 
of Mar ; and, seizing the opportunity, when, in 
1482, the King had convoked the whole array 
of the country to march against the English, 
they held a midnight council in the church of 
Lauder, for the purpose of forcibly removing 
these minions from the King's person. When 
all had agreed on the propriety of this measure, 
Lord Gray told the assembly the apologue of 
the Mice, who had formed a resolution that it 
would be highly advantageous to their com- 
munity to tie a bell round the cat's neck, that 
they might hear her approach at a distance ; but 
which public measure unfortunately miscarried, 
from no mouse being willing to undertake the 



580 



APPENDIX. 



task of fastening the bell. " I understand the 
moral," said Angus, "and, that what we pro- 
pose may not lack execution, I will bell-the-cat." 

Note 6i. 

Against the war had Angus stood, 
And chafed his royal Lord. — P. 86. 
Angus was an old man when the war against 
England was resolved upon. He earnestly 
spoke against that measure from its com- 
mencement ; and, on the eve of the battle of 
Flodden, remonstrated so freely upon the im- 
policy of fighting, that the King said to him, 
with scorn and indignation, "if he was afraid 
he might go home." The Earl burst into tears 
at this insupportable insult, and retired ac- 
cordingly, leaving his sons George, Master of 
Angus, and Sir William of Glenbervie, to com- 
mand his followers. They were both slain in 
the battle, with two hundred gentlemen of the 
name of Douglas. The aged Earl, broken- 
hearted at the calamities of his house and his 
country, retired into a religious house, where 
he died about a year after the field of Flodden. 

Note 62. 

Tantallon hold.—V. 87. 

The ruins of Tantallon Castle occupy a high 
rock projecting into the German Ocean, about 
two miles east of North Berwick. The build- 
ing formed a principal castle of the Douglas 
family, and when the Earl of Angus was 
banished, in 1527, it continued to hold out 
against James V. The King went in person 
against it, and for its reduction, borrowed from 
the Castle of Dunbar, then belonging to the 
Duke of Albany, two great cannons, "Thrawn- 
mouth'd Meg and her Marrow;" also, "two 
great botcards, and two moyan, two double 
falcons, and four quarter falcons." Yet, not- 
withstanding all this apparatus, James was 
forced to raise the siege, and only afterwards 
obtained possession of Tantallon by treaty with 
the governor, Simon Panango. When the 
Earl of Angus returned from banishment, upon 
the death of James, he again obtained posses- 
sion of Tantallon, and it actually afforded re- 
fuge to an English ambassador, under circum- 
stances similar to those described in the text. 
This was no other than the celebrated Sir 
Ralph Sadler, who resided there for some time 
under Angus's protection, after the failui-e of 
his negotiation for matching the infant Mary 
with Edward VI. 

Note 63. 
Their motto on his blade. — P. 87. 

A very ancient sword, in possession of Lord 
Douglas, bears, among a great deal of flourish- 
ing, two hands pointing to a heart, which is 
placed betwixt them, and the date 1329, being 
the year in which Bruce charged the good 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to the Holy 
Land. 



Note 64. 

Martin Szuart.—V. 88. 

A German general, who commanded the 
auxiliaries sent by the Duchess of Burgundy 
with Lambert Simnel. He was defeated and 
killed at Stokefield. The name of this German 
general is preserved by that of the field of 
battle, which is called, after him, Swai tinoor. — 
There were songs about him long current 
in England. — See Dissertation prefixed to 
Ritson's Ancient Songs, 1792, p. lxi. 

Note 65. 
— The Cross.— P. 89. 
The Cross of Edinburgh was an ancient and 
curious structure. The lower part was an 
octagonal tower, sixteen feet in diameter, and 
about fifteen feet high. At each angle there 
was a pillar, and between them an arch, of the 
Grecian shape. Above these was a projecting 
battlement, with a turret at each corner, and 
medallions, of rude but curious workmanship, 
between them. Above this rose the proper 
Cross, a column of one stone, upwards of twenty 
feet high, surmounted with a unicorn. This 
pillar is preserved in the grounds of the property 
of Drum, near Edinburgh. 

■Note 66. 

This awful summons came. — P. 89. 

This supernatural citation is mentioned by 
all our Scottish historians. It was, probably, 
like the apparition at Linlithgow, an attempt, 
by those averse to the war, to impose upon the 
superstitious temper of James IV. 

Note 67. 

One of his own ancestry, 

Drove the Monks forth of Coventry. — P. 91. 

This relates to the catastrophe of a real 
Robert de Marmion, in the reign of King 
Stephen, whom William of Newbury describes 
with some attributes of my fictitious hero : 
Homo bellicosusyferocia, et astucia,fere nullo 
suo tempore impar." This Baron, having ex- 
pelled the Monks from the church of Coventry, 
was not long of experiencing the Divine judg- 
ment, as the same monks, no doubt, termed his 
disaster. Having waged a feudal war with the 
Earl of Chester, Marmion's horse fell, as he 
charged in the van of his troop, against a body 
of the Earl's followers : the rider's thigh being 
broken by the fall, his head was cut off by a 
common foot-soldier, ere he could receive any 
succour. The whole story is told by William 
of Newbury. 

Note 68. 

The savage Dane 

At Iol more deep the mead did drain. — P. 92. 

The Iol of the heathen Danes (a word still 
applied to Christmas in Scotland) was solenv 



- 



nized with great festivity. The humour of 
the Danes at table displayed itself in pelting 
each other with bones ; and Torfeus tells a 
long and curious story, in the History of 
Hrolfe Kraka, of one Hottus, an inmate of the 
Court of Denmark, who was so generally as- 
sailed with these missiles, that he constructed, 
out of the bones with which he was over- 
whelmed, a very respectable intrenchment, 
against those who continued the raillery. 

Note 69. 

Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery. — P. 93. 

It seems certain, that the Mummers of 
England, who (in Northumberland at least) 
used to go about in disguise to the neighbour- 
ing houses, bearing the then useless plough- 
share ; and the Guisards of Scotland, not yet 
in total disuse, present," in some indistinct 
degree, a shadow of the old mysteries, which 
were the origin of the English drama. In 
Scotland, {me ipso teste?) we were wont, during 
my boyhood, to take the characters of the 
apostles, at least of Peter, Paul, and Judas 
Iscariot ; the first had the keys, the second 
carried a sword, and the last the bag, in which 
the dole of our neighbours' plum-cake was de- 
posited. One played a champion, and recited 
some traditional rhymes ; another was 

"Alexander, King of Macedon, 
Who conquer'd all the world but Scotland 
alone." 

These, and many such verses, were repeated, 
but by rote, and unconnectedly. There was 
also, occasionally, I believe, a Saint George. 
In all, there was a confused resemblance of the 
ancient mysteries, in which the characters of 
Scripture, the Nine Worthies, and other popu- 
lar personages, were usually exhibited. 

Note 70. 

The Highlander 

Will, on a Friday morn, look pale, 
If 'ask 'd to tell a fairy tale. — P. 94. 

The Daoine shf, or Men of Peace, of the 
Scottish Highlanders, rather resemble the Scan- 
dinavian Duergar than the English Fairies. 
Notwithstanding their name, they are, if not 
absolutely malevolent, at least peevish, dis- 
contented, and apt to do mischief on slight 
provocation. The belief of their existence is 
deeply impressed on the Highlanders, who 
think they are particularly offended at mortals 
who talk of them, who wear their favourite 
colour green, or in any respect interfere with 
their affairs. This is especially to be avoided 
on Friday, when, whether as dedicated to 
Venus, with whom, in Germany, this subter- 
raneous people are held nearly connected, or 
foi a more solemn reason, they are more 
active, and possessed of greater power. Some 



curious part culars concerning the popular su- 
perstitions of the Highlanders may be found in 
Dr. Graham's Picturesque Sketches of Perth- 
shire. 

Note 71. 

Tlie last lord of Francht'mont. — P. 94. I 

The journal of the friend to whom the 
Fourth Canto of the -Poem is inscribed, fur- 
nished me with the following account of a 
striking superstition. 

" Passed the pretty little village of Franche- 
mont (near Spaw), with the romantic ruins of 
the old castle of the Counts of that name. The 
road leads through many delightful vales on a 
rising ground ; at the extremity of one of them 
stands the ancient castle, now the subject of 
many superstitious legends. It is firmly be- 
lieved by the neighbouring peasantry, that the 
last Baron of Franchemont deposited, in one of 
the vaults of the castle, a ponderous chest, 
containing an immense treasure in gold and 
silver, which, by some magic spell, was in- 
trusted to the care of the Devil, who is con- 
stantly found sitting on the chest in the shape 
of a huntsman. Any one adventurous enough 
to touch the chest is instantly seized with the 
palsy. Upon one occasion, a priest of noted 
piety was brought to the vault : he used all the 
arts of exorcism to- persuade his infernal majesty 
to vacate his seat, but in vain ; the huntsman 
remained immovable. At last, moved by the 
earnestness of the priest, he told him that he 
would agree to resign the chest, if the exorciser 
would sign his name with blood. But the 
priest understood his meaning, and refused, as 
by that act he would have delivered over his 
soul to the Devil. Yet if anybody can dis- 
cover the mystic words used by the person who 
deposited the treasure, and pronounce them, 
the fiend must instantly decamp. I had many 
stories of a similar nature from a peasant, who 
had himself seen the Devil in the shape of 
a great cat." 

Note 72. 

the huge and sweeping brand 

Which wont of yore, in battle fray, 
Hisfoeman's limbs to shred away, 
As wood-kfiife lops tlie sapling spray. — P. 98. 

The Earl of Angus had strength and per- 
sonal activity corresponding to his courage. 
Spens of Kilspindie, a favourite of James IV., 
having spoken of him lightly, the Earl met 
him while hawking, and, compelling him to 
single combat, at one blow cut asunder his 
thigh-bone, and killed him on the spot. But 
ere he could obtain James's pardon for this 
slaughter, Angus was obliged to yield his 
castle of Hermitage, in exchange for that of 
Bothwell, which was some diminution to the 
family greatness. The sword with which he 
struck so remarkable a blow, was presented 
by .his descendant James, Earl of Morton, 



afterwards Regent of Scotland, to Lord Lin- 
desay of the Byres, when he defied Both- 
well to single combat on Carberry Hill. See 
Introduction to the Minstrelsy of t/te Scottish 

Note 73. 

And hopest thou hence unscathed to go ?— 

by St. Bride of Bothivell, no] 
Up drawbridge, grooms I — What, Warder, 
)w ! 
Let the portcullis fall. — P. 99. 

This ebullition of violence in the potent Earl 
of Angus is not without its example in the real 
history of the house of Douglas, whose chief- 
tains possessed the ferocity with the heroic 
virtues of a savage state. The most curious 
instance occurred in the case of Maclellan, 
Tutor of Bombay, who, having refused to 
acknowledge the pre-eminence claimed by 
Douglas over the gentlemen and Earons of 
Galloway, was seized and imprisoned by the 
Earl, in his castle of the Thrieve, on the 
borders of Kirkcudbrightshire. Sir Patrick 
Gray, commander of King James the Second's 
guard, was uncle to the Tutor of Bombay, and 
obtained from the King a " sweet letter of sup- 
plication," praying the Earl to deliver his 
prisoner into Gray's hand. When Sir Patrick 
arrived at the castle, he was received with all 
the honour due to a favourite servant of the 
King's household ; but while he was at dinner, 
the Earl, who suspected his -errand, caused his 
prisoner to be led forth and beheaded. After 
dinner, Sir Patrick presented the King's letter 
to the Earl, who received it with great affecta- 
tion of reverence ; " and took him hy the hand, 
and led him forth to the green, where the 
gentleman was lying dead, and showed him 
the manner, and said, ' Sir Patrick, you are 
come a little too late ; yonder is your sister's 
son lying, but he wants the head : take his 
body, and do with it what you will.' — Sir 
Patrick answered again, with a sore heart, and 
said, 'My lord, if ye have taken from him his 
head, dispone upon the body as ye please ; ' 
and with that called for his horse, and leaped 
thereon ; and when he was on horseback, he 
said to the Earl on this manner, ' My lord, if 
I live you shall be rewarded .for your labours 
that you have used at this time, according to 
your demerits.'. 

" At this saying the Earl was highly of- 
fended, and cried for horse. Sir Patrick, see- 
ing the Earl's fury, spurred his horse, but he 
was chased near Edinburgh ere they left him ; 
and had it not been his led horse was so tried 
and good he had been taken." — Pitscottie's 
History, p. 39. 

Note 74. 

A letter forged!— Saint Jitde to speed! 
Did ever knight so foul a deed! — P. 99. 

Lest the reader should partake of the Earl's 



astonishment, and consider the crime as incon- 
sistent with the manners of the period, I have 
to remind him of the numerous forgeries (partly 
executed by a female assistant) devised by 
Robert of Artois, to forward his suit against the 
Countess Matilda ; which, being detected, oc- 
casioned his flight into England, and proved 
the remote cause of Edward the Third's me- 
morable wars in France. John Harding, also, 
was expressly hired by Edward I. to forge such 
documents as might appear to establish the 
claim of fealty asserted over Scotland by the 
English monarchs. 

Note 75. 

Twisel bridge . — P. r.oo. 

On the evening previous to the memorable 
battle of Flodden, Surrey's head-quarters were 
at Barmoor V/ood, and King James held an 
inaccessible position on the ridge of Flodden- 
hill, one of the last and lowest eminences de- 
tached from the ridge of Cheviot. The Till, a 
deep and slow river, winded between the 
armies. On the morning of the 9th September 
1513, Surrey marched in a north-westerly direc- 
tion, and crossed the Till, with his van and 
artillery, at Twiselbridge, nigh where that river 
joins the Tweed, his rear-guard column passing 
about a mile higher, by a ford. This move- 
ment had the double effect of placing his army 
between King James and his rupplies from 
Scotland, and of striking the Scottish monarch 
with surprise, as he seems to have relied on the 
depth of the river in his front. But as the 
passage, both over the bridge and through the 
ford, was difficult and slow, it seems possible 
that the English might have been attacked to 
great- advantage while struggling with these 
natural obstacles. I know not if we are to 
impute James's forbearance to want of military 
skill, or to the romantic declaration which 
Pitscottie puts in his mouth, "that he was 
determined to have his enemies before him on 
a plain field," and therefore would suffer no 
interruption to be given, even by artillery, to 
their passing the river. 

Note 76. 

Hence might they see tJiefull array, 
Of eWier host, for deadly fray. — P. 101. 

The reader cannot here expect a full account 
of the battle of Flodden ; but, so far as is 
necessary to understand the romance, I beg to 
remind him, that, when the English army, by 
their skilful countermarch, were fairly placed 
between King James and his own country, the 
Scottish monarch resolved to fight ; and, setting 
fire to his tents, descended from the ridge of 
Flodden to secure the neighbouring eminence 
of Brankstone, on which that village is built. 
Thus the two armies met, almost without see- 
ing each other, when, 'according to the old 
poem, of " Flodden Field," 




" The English line stretch'd east and 
And southward were their face- 
The Scottish northward proudly prest, 
And manfully their foes they met." 

The English army advanced in four divisions. 
On the right, which first engaged, were the 
sons of Earl Surrey, namely, Thomas Howard, 
the Admiral of England, and Sir Edmund, the 
Knight Marshal of the army. Their divisions 
were separated from each other; but, at the 
request of Sir Edmund, his brother's battalion 
was drawn very near to his own. The centre 
was commanded by Surrey in person ; the left 
wing by Sir Edward Stanley, with the men of 
Lancashire, and of the palatinate of Chester. 
Lord Dacres, with a large body of horse, 
formed a reserve. When the smcke, which 
the wind had driven between ,the armies, was 
somewhat dispersed, they perceived the Scots, 
who had moved down the hill in a similar order 
of battle and in deep silence. The Earls of 
Huntley and of Home commanded their left 
wing, and charged Sir Edmund Howar 
such success as entirely to defeat his part of 
the English right wing. Sir Edmund's banner 
was beaten down, and he himself escaped with 
difficulty to his brother's division. The Ad- 
miral, however, stood firm ; and Dacre advanc- 
ing to his support with the reserve of cavalry, 
probably between the intervals of the divisions 
commanded by the brothers Howard, appears 
to have kept the victors in effectual check. 
Home's men, chiefly Borderers, began to pillage 
the baggage of both armies ; and their leader 
is branded by the Scottish historians with neg- 
ligence or treachery. On the other hand, 
Huntley, on whom they bestow many en- 
comiums, is said by the English historians to 
have left the field after the first charge. Mean- 
while the Admiral, whose flank these chiefs 
ought to have attacked, availed himself of their 
inactivity, and pushed forward against another 
large division of the Scottish army in his front, 
headed by the Earls of Crawford and Mont- 
rose, both of whom were slain, and their forces 
routed. On the left, the success of the English 
was yet more decisive ; for the Scottish right 
wing, consisting of undisciplined Highlanders, 
commanded by Lennox and Argyle, was unable 
to sustain the charge of Sir Edward Stanley, 
and especially the severe execution of the Lan- 
cashire archers. The King and Surrey, who 
commanded the respective centres of their 
armies, were meanwhile engaged in close and 
dubious conflict. James, surrounded by the 
flower of his kingdom, and, impatient of the 
galling discharge of arrows, supported also by 
his reserve under Bothwell, charged with such 
fury, that the standard of Surrey was in danger. 
At that critical moment, Stanley, who had 
routed the left wing of the Scottish, pursued 
his career of victory, and arrived on the right 
flank, and in the rear of James's division, which, 
throwing itself into a circle, disputed the battle 
till night came on. Surrey then drew back his 



forces ; for the Scottish centre not having been 
broken, and their left wing being victon 
yet doubted the event of the field. TK 
tish army, however, felt their loss, anj 
doned the field of battle in disorder, before 
dawn. They lost, perhaps, from eight 
thousand men ; but that included the very 
prime of their nobility, gentry, and even 
Scarce a family of eminence but has an an- 
cestor killed at Flodden ; and there is no pro- 
vince in Scotland, even at this day, where the 
battle is mentioned without a sensation of 
terror and sorrow. The English lost 
great number of men, perhaps within one-third 
of the vanquished, but they were of inferior 
note. 

B 77. 

Bruin Tunstall, stainless knight.—- 

P. 103. 
Sir Brian Tunstall, called in the romantic 
language of the time, Tunstall the Undefiled, 
was one of the few Englishmen of rank slain 
at Flodden. He figures in the ancient English 
poem, to which I may safely refer my readers ; 
as an edition, with full explanatory notes, has 
been published by my friend, Mr. Henry 
Weber. Tunstall, perhaps, derived his epithet 
of undefi led from his white armour and banner, 
the latter bearing a white cock, about to crow, 
as well as from his unstained loyalty and 
knightly faith. His place of residence was 
Thurland Castle. 

Note 78. 

Reckless of life, lie desperate fought, 

And fell on Flodden plain : 
And well in death his trusty bra 
Firm clench' d ivithin his manly hand, 

Beseem d tlte monarch slain. — P. 105. 

There can be no doubt that King James fell 
in the battle of Flodden. He was killed, says 
the curious French Gazette, within a lance's 
length of the Earl of Surrey ; and the same 
account adds, that none of his division were 
made prisoners, though many were killed ; a 
circumstance that testifies the desperation of 
their resistance. The Scottish historians re- 
cord many of the idle reports which passed 
among the vulgar of their day. Home was 
accused, by the popular voice, not only of fail- 
ing to support the King, but even of having 
carried him out of the field, and murdered him. 
And this tale was revived in my remembrance, 
by an unauthenticated story of a skeleton, 
wrapped in a bull's hide, and surrounded with 
an iron chain, said to have been found in the 
well of Home Castle ; for which, on inquiry, 
I could never find any better authority than the 
sexton of the parish having said that, if the 
■well were cleaned out, lie would not be sur- 
prised at such a discovery. Home was the 
chamberlain of the King, and his prime favour- 
ite ; he had much to lose ;in fact did lose all) 
in consequence of James's death, and nothing 



V 



earthly to gain by that event : but the retreat, 
or inactivity, of the left wing which he com- 
manded, after defeating Sir Edmund Howard, 
and even the circumstance of his returning un- 
hurt, and loaded with spoil, from so fatal a 
conflict, rendered the propagation of any 
calumny against him easy and acceptable. 
Other reports gave a still more romantic turn 
to the King's fate, and averred that James, 
weary of greatness, after the carnage among 
his nobles, had gone on a pilgrimage, to merit 
absolution for the death of his father, and the 
breach of his oath of amity to Henry. In par- 
ticular, it was objected to the English, that 
they could never show the token of the iron 
belt ; which, however, he was likely enough to 
have laid aside on the day of battle, as en- 
cumbering his personal exertions. They produce 
a better evidence, the monarch's sword and 
dagger, which are still preserved in the Herald's 
College in London. Stowe has recorded a de- 
grading story of the disgrace with which the 



remains of the unfortunate monarch were treated 
in his time. An unhewn column marks tho 
spot where James fell, still called the King's 
Stone. 

Note 79. 

The fair cathedral stor?n , d and took. 

P. 105 
This storm of Lichfield cathedral, which had 
been garrisoned on the part of the King, took 
place in the Great Civil War. Lord Brook, 
who, with Sir John Gill, commanded the as- 
sailants, was shot with a musket-ball through 
the vizor of his helmet. The royalists remarked, 
that he was killed by a shot fired from St. 
Chad's cathedral, and upon St. Chad's Day, 
and received his death-wound in the very eye 
with which, he had said, he hoped to see the 
ruin of all the cathedrals in England. The 
magnificent church in question suffered cruelly 
upon this, and other occasions ; the principal 
spire being ruined by the fire of the besiegers. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



Note i. 

the heights of Ua7n- Var, 

And roused the cavern, where, 'tis told, 
A giant made his den of old. — P. m. 

Ua-vak, as the name is pronounced, or more 
properly Uaighmor, is a mountain to the 
north-east of the village of Callender in Men- 
teith, deriving its name, which signifies the 
great den, or cavern, from a sort of retreat 
among the rocks on the south side, said, by 
tradition, to have been the abode of a giant. 
In latter times, it was the refuge of robbers 
and banditti, who have been only extirpated 
within these forty or fifty years. Strictly 
speaking, this stronghold is not a cave, as the 
name would imply, but a sort of small enclosure, 
or recess, surrounded with large rocks, and 
open above head. 

Note 2. 

Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, 
Unmalcfid for courage, breath, and speed. — 

P. in. 
" The hounds which we call Saint Hubert's 
hounds, are commonly all blacke, yet neuer- 
theless, the race is so mingled at these days, 
that we find them of all colours. These are 
the hounds which the abbots of St. Hubert 
haue always kept some of their race or kind, 



was a hunter with S. Eustace. Whereupon 
we may conceiue that (by the grace of God) 
all good huntsmen shall follow them into pa- 
radise." — The Noble A rt of Venerie or Hunt- 
ing, translated a?id collected for tlie Use of all 
Noblejneti and Gentlemen. Lond. 1611, 4to, 
P- 15. 

Note 3. 

For the death-wound and death-halloo, 
Muster 'd his breath, his whinyard drew. — 
P. nr. 
When the stag turned to bay, the ancient 
hun«er had the perilous task of going in upon, 
and killing or disabling the desperate animal. 
At certain times of the year this was held par- 
ticularly dangerous, a wound received from a 
stag's horn being then deemed poisonous, and 
more dangerous than one from the tusks of a 
boar, as the old rhyme testifies : — 

" If thou be hurt with hart, it brings thee to thy 
bier, 
But barber's hand will boar's hurt heal, there- 
fore thou need'st not fear." 

At all times, however the task was dangerous, 
and to be adventured upon wisely and warily, 
either by getting behind the stag while he was 
gazing on the hounds, or by watching an op- 
portunity to gallop roundly in upon him, and 
kill him with the sword. 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



58S 



Note 4. 

And now to issue from the glen, 
No pathway meets the wanderer's ken, 
Unless he climb, with footing nice, 
A fa r projecting precipice. — P. 112. 

Until the present road was made through 
the romantic pass which I have presumptu- 
ously attempted to describe in the preceding 
stanzas, there was no mode of issuing out of 
the defile called the Trosachs, excepting by a 
sort of ladder, composed of the branches and 
roots of trees. 

Note 5. 

To meet with Highland plunderers here, 
Were worse than loss of steed or deer. — P. 113. 

The clans who inhabited the romantic regions 
in the neighbourhood of Loch Katrine, were, 
even until a late period, much addicted to 
predatory excursions upon their Lowland 
neighbours. 

Note 6. 

A gray-hair 'd sire, whose eye intent, 
Was on the vision' dfuttcre bent. — P. 114. 

If force of evidence could authorize us to be- 
lieve facts inconsistent with the general laws of 
nature, enough might be produced in favour of 
the existence of the Second-sight. It is called 
in Gaelic Taishitaraugh, from Taish, an un- 
real or shadowy appearance ; and those pos- 
sessed of the faculty are called Taistiatrin, 
which may be aptly translated visionaries. 
Martin, a steady believer in the second-sight, 
gives the following account of it : — 

"The second-sight is a singular faculty, of 
seeing an otherwise invisible object, without 
any previous means used by the person that 
used it for that end ; the vision makes such a 
lively impression upon the seers, that they 
neither see, nor think of anything else, except 
the vision, as long as it continues ; and then 
they appear pensive or jovial, according to the 
object that was represented to them. * "" 

" At the sight of a vision, the eyelids of the 
person are erected, and the eyes continue star- 
ing until the object vanish. This is obvious to 
others who are by, when the persons happen to 
see a vision, and occurred more than once to 
my own observation, and to others that were 
with me. 

" If a woman is seen standing at a man's left 
hand, it is a presage that she will, be his wife, 
whether they be married to others, or unmarried 
at the time of the apparition. 

"To see a spark of fire fall upon one's arm or 
; breast, is a forerunner of a dead child to be seen 
in the arms of those persons ; of which there 
are several fresh instances. 

"To see a seat empty at the time of one's 
sitting in it, is a presage of that person's death 
soon after." — Martin's Description of the 
Western Islands, 17 16, 8vo, p. 300, etseq. 



To these particulars innumerable exampli s 
might be added, all attested by grave and 
credible authors. But, in despite of evidence 
which neither Bacon, Boyle, nor Johnson were 
able to resist, the Taisch, with all its visionary 
properties, seems to be now universally aban- 
doned to the use of poetry. The exquisitely 
beautiful poem of Lochiel will at once occur to 
the recollection of every reader. 

Note 7. 

Here, for retreat in dangerous hour, 
Some chief had framed a rustic bower. 

P. us. 

The Celtic chieftains, whose lives were con- 
tinually exposed to ."peril, had usually, in the 
most retired spot of their domains, some place 
of retreat for the hour of necessity, which, as 
circumstances would admit, was a tower, a 
cavern, or a rustic hut, in a strong and secluded 
situation. One of these last gave refuge to the 
unfortunate Charles Edward, in his> perilous 
wanderings after the battle of Culloden. 

Note 8. 

My sire's tall form might grace the part 
Of Ferragus or Ascabart. — P. 116. 

These two sons of Anak flourished in romar • 
tic fable. The first is well known to the ad- 
mirers of Ariosto, by the name of Ferrau. He 
was an antagonist of Orlando, and was at length 
slain by him in single combat. 

Ascapart, or Ascabart, makes a very material 
figure in the History of Bevis of Hampton, by 
whom he was conquered. His effigies may be 
seen guarding one side of a gate at Southampton, 
while the other is occupied by Sir Bevis himself. 

Note 9. 

Though all unasked his birth and name.— P. 1 16. 

The Highlanders, who carried hospitality to 
a punctilious excess, are said to have considered 
it as churlish, to ask a stranger his name or 
lineage, before he had taken refreshment. 
Feuds were so frequent among them, that a 
contrary rule would in many cases have pro- 
duced the discovery of some circumstance, 
which might have excluded the guest from the 
benefit of the assistance he stood in need of. 

Note 10. 

Morn's genial influence roused a minstrels ray. 

Allan Bane. — P. 117. 

The Highland chieftains retained in their 
service the bard, as a family officer, to a late 
period. 

Note ii. 
The Gr&me.—'P. 118. 

The ancient and powerful family of Graham 
(which, for metrical reasons, is here spelt after 
the Scottish pronunciation) held extensive pos- 



586 



APPENDIX. 



-J 



sessions in the counties of Dumbarton and Stir- 
ling. Few families can boast of more historical 
renown, having claim to three of the most re- 
markable characters in the Scottish annals. Sir 
John the Graeme, the fa'thful and undaunted 
partaker of the labours and patriotic warfare of 
Wallace, fell in the unfortunate field of Falkirk, 
1298. . The celebrated Marquis of Montrose, in 
whom De Retz saw realized his abstract idea of 
♦he heroes of antiquity, was the second of these 
■worthies. And, notwithstanding the severity 
of his temper, and the rigour with which he 
executed the oppressive mandates of the princes 
whom he served, I do not hesitate to name as 
a third, John Graeme of Claverhouse, Viscount 
of Dundee, whose heroic death in the arms of 
victory may be allowed to cancel the memory 
of his cruelty to the nonconformists, during the 
reigns of Charles II. and James II. 

Note 12. 

This harp, which erst Saint Modan sway'd. — 

P. 119. 
I am not prepared to show that Saint Modan 
was a performer on the harp. It was, however, 
no unsaintly accomplishment; for Saint Dun- 
stan certainly did play upon that instrument, 
which retaining, as was natural, a portion of 
the sanctity attached to its master's character, 
announced future events by its spontaneous 
sound. 

Note 13. 

Ere Douglasses, to rui?i driven, 

Were exiled from their native heaven. — 

P. 119. 
The downfall of the Douglasses of the house 

of Angus during the reign of James V. is the 

event alluded to in the text. 



Note 14. 
In Holy-Rood a knight he slew.- 



-P. 120. 



This was by no means an uncommon occur- 
rence in the Court of Scotland ; nay, the 
presence of the sovereign himself scarcely re- 
strained the ferocious and inveterate feuds 
which were the perpetual source of bloodshed 
among the Scottish nobility. The murder of 
Sir William Stuart of Ochiltree, called The 
Bloody, by the celebrated Francis, Earl of 
Bothwell, may be mentioned among many 
others. — Johnstoni Historia Rerum Britan- 
nicarum, ab anno 1572 ad annum 1628. Am- 
stelodami, 1655, fol. p. 135. 

Note 15. 

The Douglas, like a stricken deer, 
Disown' d by every noble peer. — P. 120. 

The exile state of this powerful race is not 
exaggerated in this and subsequent passages. 
The hatred of James against the race of Doug- 
las was so inveterate, that numerous as their 



allies were, arid disregarded as the regal author- 
ity had usually been in similar cases, their 
nearest friends, even in the most remote parts 
of Scotland, durst not entertain them, unless 
under the strictest and closest disguise. 

Note 16. 

Maroiman's cell. — P. 120. 

The parish of Kilmaronock, at the eastern 
extremity of Loch Lomond, derives its name 
from a cell or chapel, dedicated to St. Maro- 
nock, or Marnock, or Maronnan, about whose 
sanctity very little is now remembered. There 
is a fountain devoted to him in the same parish ; 
but its virtues, like the merits of its patron, have 
fallen into oblivion. 

Note 17. 

Bracklinn's thundering wave. — P. 120. 

This is a beautiful cascade made by a moun- 
tain stream called the Keltie, at a place called 
the Bridge of Bracklinn, about a mile from the 
village of Callender in Menteith. 

Note 18. 

For Tine-man forged by fairy lore. — P. 120. 

Archibald, the third Earl of Douglas, was so 
unfortunate in all his enterprises, that he ac- 
quired the epithet of Tineman, because he 
tiued, or lost, his followers in every battle 
which he fought. 

Note 19. 

Did, selfutiscabbarded, foreshow 
The footstep of a secret foe.— -P. 120. 

The ancient warriors, whose hope and con- 
fidence rested chiefly in their blades, were ac- 
customed to deduce omens from them, especially 
from such as were supposed to have been fabri- 
cated by enchanted skill, of which we have 
various instances in the romances and legends 
of the time. 

Note 20. 

Those thrilling sounds that call the might 
Of old Clan-Alpine to the fight.— -P. 121. 

The connoisseurs in pipe-music affect to dis- 
cover in a well-composed pibroch, the imitative 
sounds of march, conflict, flight, pursuit, and all 
the " current of a heady fight." 



Note 21. 
Roderigh Vich Alpine dim, . 



! teroe ! — 
P. 121. 



Besides his ordinary name and surname, 
which were chiefly used in the intercourse with 
the Lowlands, every Highland chief had an 
epithet expressive of his patriarchal dignity as 
head of the clan, and which was common to 
all his predecessors and successors, as Pharaoh 
to the kings of Egypt, or Arsaces to those of 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



$1 



Parthia. This name was usually a patronymic, 
expressive of his descent from the founder of 
the family. Thus the Duke of Argyle is called 
MacCallum More, or the son of Colin the Great. 

Note 22. 

And while the Fiery Cross glanced, like a 
meteor, round. — P. 126. 
When a chieftain designed to summon his 
clan, upon any sudden or important emergency, 
he slew a goat, and making a cross of any light 
wood, seared its extremities in the fire, and ex- 
tinguished them in the blood of the animal. 
This was called the Fiery Cross, also Crean 
Tarigh, or the Cross of Shame, because dis- 
obedience to what the symbol implied, inferred 
infamy. It was delivered to a swift and trusty 
messenger, who ran full speed with it to the 
next hamlet, where he presented it to the prin- 
cipal person, with a single word, implying the 
place of rendezvous. He who received the 
symbol was bound to send it forward with equal 
dispatch, to the next village ; and thus it passed 
with incredible celerity through all the district 
which owed allegiance to the chief, and also 
among his allies and neighbours, if the danger 
was common to them. At sight of the Fiery 
Cross, every man, from sixteen years old to 
sixty, capable of bearing arms, was obliged in- 
stantly to repair, in his best arms and accoutre- 
ments, to the place of rendezvous. He who 
failed to appear, suffered the extremities of fire 
and sword, which were emblematically de- 
nounced to the disobedient by the bloody and 
burnt marks upon this warlike signal. During 
the civil war of 1745-6, the Fiery Cross often 
made its circuit; and upon one occasion it 
passed through the whole district of Breadal- 
bane, a tract of thirty-two miles, in three hours. 

Note 23. 

That monk, of savage form and face. — P. 127. 

The state of religion in the middle ages 
afforded considerable facilities for those whose 
mode of life excluded them from regular wor- 
ship, to secure, nevertheless, the ghostly assist- 
ance of confessors, perfectly willing to adapt 
the nature of their doctrine to the necessities 
and peculiar circumstances of their flock. Robin 
Hood, it is well known, had his celebrated 
domestic chaplain, Friar Tuck. 

Note 24. 

Of Brian's birth strange tales were told.— 
P. 127. 

The legend which follows is not of the author's 
invention. It is possible he may differ from 
modern critics, in supposing that the records of 
human superstition, if "peculiar to, and charac- 
teristic of, the country in which the scene is 
laid, are a legitimate subject of poetry. He 
gives, however, a ready assent to the narrower 
proposition which condemns all attempts of an 



irregular and disordered fancy to excite terror, 
by accumulating a train of fantastic and inco* 
herent horrors, whether borrowed from .ill 
countries, and patched upon a narrative belong- 
ing to one which knew them not, or derived 
from the author's own imagination. In the 
present case, therefore, I appeal to the record 
which I have transcribed, with the variation of 
a very few words, from the geographical collec- 
tions made by the Laird of Macfarlane. I 
know not whether \*. be necessary to remark, 
that the miscellaneous concourse of youths and 
maidens on the night and on the spot where the 
miracle is said to have taken place, might, even 
in a credulous age, have somewhat diminished 
the wonder which accompanied the conception 
of Gilli-Doir-Magrevolich. 

"There is bot two myles from Inverloghie, 
the church of Kilmalee, in Lochyeld. In an- 
cient tymes there was ane church builded upon 
ane hill, which was above this church, which 
doeth now stand in this toune ; and ancient 
men doeth say, that there was a battell foughten 
on ane litle hill not the tenth part of a myle from 
this church, be certaine men which they did not 
know what they were. And long tyme there- 
after, certaine herds of that toune, and of the 
next toune, called Unnatt, both wenches and 
youthes, did on a tyme conveen with others on 
that hill; and the day being somewhat cold, 
did gather the bones of the dead men that were 
slayne long tyme before in that place, and did 
make a fire to warm them. At last they did 
all remove from the fire, except one maid or 
wench, which was verie cold, and she did re- 
maine there for a space. She being quyetlie 
her alone, without anie other companie, took 
up her cloaths above her knees, or thereby to 
warm her; a wind did come and caste the 
ashes upon her, and she was conceived of ane 
man-chyld. Severall tymes thereafter she was 
verie sick, and at last she was knowne to be 
with chyld. And then her parents did ask at 
her the matter heiroff, which the wench could 
not weel answer which way to satisfie them. At 
last she resolved them with ane answer. As 
fortune fell upon her concerning this marvellous 
miracle, the chyld being borne, his name was 
called Gili-doir Maghrevollich, that is to say, 
the Black Child, Son to the Bones. So called, 
his grandfather sent him to school, and so he 
was a good schollar, and godlie. He did build 
this church which doeth now stand in Lochyeld, 
called Kilmalie."— Macfarlane, ut supra, ii. 
188. 

Note 25. 

Yet ne'er again to braid her hair 

The Virgin snood did Alice wear. — P. 127. 

The snood, or riband, with which a Scottish 
lass braided her hair, had an emblematical sig- 
nification, and applied to her maiden character. 
It was exchanged for the curch, toy, or coif, 
when she passed, by marriage, into the matron 
state. But if the damsel was so unfortunate as 
to lose pretensions to the name of maiden, 



$S8 



APPENDIX. 



without paining a right to that of matron, she 
was neither permitted to use the snood, nor 
advanced to the graver dignity of the curch. 
In old Scottish songs there occur many sly allu- 
sions to such misfortune ; as in the old words to 
the popular tune of " Ower the muir amang the 
heather." 

"Down amang the broom, the broom, 
Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost her silken snood, 
That gard her greet till she was wearie." 

Note 26. 
T/ie fatal Ben-Shies boding scream. — P. 128. 

Most great families in the Highlands were 
supposed to have a tutelar, or rather a domes- 
tic spirit, attached to them, who took an in- 
terest in their prosperity, and intimated, by its 
waitings, any approaching disaster. A super- 
stition of the same kind is, I believe, univers- 
ally received by the inferior ranks of the native 
Irish. 

Note 27. 

Sounds, too, /tad come in midnight blast, ' 

Of charging steeds, careering fast 

Along Ben/iarrozus shingly side, 

W/iere mortal horsemen ne'er might ride. — 
P. 128. 

A presage of the kind alluded to in the text, 
is still believed to announce death to the an- 
cient Highland family of M'Lean of Lochbuy. 
The spirit of an ancestor slain in battle is heard 
to gallop along a stony bank, and then to ride 
thrice around the family residence, ringing his 
fairy bridle, and thus intimating the approach- 
ing calamity. 



Note 28. 

the dun deer's hide 

On fleeter foot was never tied.- 



-P. 129. 



The present brogue of the Highlanders is 
made of half-dried leather, with holes to admit 
and let out the water ; for walking the moors 
dry-shod is a matter altogether out of the ques- 
tion. The ancient buskin was still ruder, being 
made of undressed deer's hide, with the hair 
outwards ; a circumstance which procured the 
Highlanders the well-known epithet of Red- 
shanks. 



Note 29. 
TJte dismal coronach. 



-P. 130. 



The Coro/iach of the Highlanders, like the 
Ululatus of the Romans, and the Ululoo of 
the Irish, was a wild expression of lamenta- 
tion, poured forth by the mourners over the 
body of a departed friend. When the words 
of it were articulate, they expressed the praises 
of the deceased, and die loss the clan would 
sustain by his death. 



Note 30. 

Not faster der thy /leathery braes, 
Balquidder, speeds the midnight blaze. — 

P. 132. 
It may be necessary to inform the southern 
reader, that the heath on the Scottish moor- 
lands is often set fire to, that the sheep may 
have the advantage of the young herbage pro- 
duced, in room 01 the tough old heather plants. 
This custom (execrated by sportsmen) pro- 
duces occasionally the most beautiful nocturnal 
appearances, similar almost to the discharge 
of a volcano. This simile is not new to poetry. 
The charge of a warrior, in the fine ballad of 
Hardyknute, is said to be " like fire to heather 
set." 

Note 31. 

by many a bard, in Celtic tongue, 

Has Coir-nan- [frishin been sung. — P. 132. 

This is a very steep and most romantic hol- 
low in the mountain of Benvenue, overhanging 
the south-eastern extremity of Loch Katrine. 
It is surrounded with stupendous rocks, and 
overshadowed with birch-trees, mingled with 
oaks, the spontaneous production of the moun- 
tain, even where its cliffs appear denuded of 
soil. 

Note 32. 

T/ie Tag/iairm calVd; by which, afar, 
Our sires foresaw t/ie events of war. — P. 134. 

The Highlanders, like all rude people, had 
various superstitious modes of inquiring into 
futurity. One of the most noted was the Tag- 
/uiirm, mentioned in the text. A person was 
wrapped up in the skin of a newly-slain bul- 
lock, and deposited beside a waterfall, or at the 
bottom of a precipice, or in some other strange, 
wild, and unusual situation, where the scenery 
around him suggested nothing but objects of 
horror. In this situation, he revolved in his 
mind the question proposed ; and whatever 
was impressed upon him by his exalted imagin- 
ation, passed for the inspiration of the dis- 
embodied spirits, who haunt the desolate 
recesses. 

Note ^3. 

that huge cliff, whose ample verge 

Tradition calls t/ie Herds Targe. — P. 135. 

There is a rock so named in the Forest of 
Glenfinlas, by which a tumultuary cataract takes 
its course. This wild place is said in former 
times to have afforded refuge to an outlaw, who 
was supplied with provisions by a woman, who 
lowered them down from the brink of the pre- 
cipice above. His water he procured for him- 
self, by letting down a flagon tied to a string, 
into the black pool beneath the fall. 



J 



THE LADY OF 777 E LAKE. 






Note 34. 

Which spills tlw foremost foe man's life, 
That party conquers in the strife. — P. 135.' 

Though this be in the text described as a re- 
sponse of the Taghairm, or Oracle of the Hide, 
it was of itself an augury frequently attended 
to. The fate of the battle was often anticipated 
in the imagination of the combatants, by ob- 
serving which party first shed blood. It 
is said that the Highlanders under Montrose 
were so deeply imbued with this notion, that, 
on the morning of fhe battle of Tippermoor, 
they murdered a defenceless herdsman, whom 
they found in the fields, merely to secure 
an advantage of so much consequence to their 
party 

Note 35. 

Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak, 

Our moonlight circle's screen f 
Or who comes here to chase the deer, 

Beloved of our Elfin Queen ? — P. 137. 

Fairies, if not positively malevolent, are ca- 
pricious, and easily offended. They are, like 
other proprietors of the forests, peculiarly jea- 
lous of their rights of vert and venison. This 
jealousy was also an attribute of the northern 
Vuergar, or dwarfs ; to many of whose dis- 
tinctions the fairies seem to have succeeded, 
if, indeed, they are not the same class of 
beings. 

Note 36. 

- — - who may dare on wold to wear 
The fairies' fatal green ? — P. 137. 

As the Daoine Shi , or Men of Peace, wore 
green habits, they were supposed to take of- 
fence when any mortals ventured to assume 
their favourite colour. Indeed, from some reason 
which has been, perhaps, originally a general 
superstition, green is held in Scotland to be 
unlucky to particular tribes and counties. The 
Caithness men, who hold this belief, allege as a 
reason, that their bands wore that colour when 
they were cut off at the battle of Flodden ; and 
for the same reason they avoid crossing the 
Ord on a Monday, being the day of the week 
on which their ill-omened array set forth. 
Green is also disliked by those of the name of 
Ogilvy ; but more especially is it held fatal to 
the whole clan of Grahame. It is remembered 
of an aged gentleman of that name, that when 
his horse fell in a fox-chase, he accounted for 
it at once by observing, that the whipcord 
attached to his lash was of this unlucky colour. 

Note 37. 

For thou wert christen' d man. — P. 137.' 

The elves were supposed greatly to envy the 
privileges acquired by Christian initiation, and 
they gave to those mortals who had fallen into 
their power a certain precedence, founded upon 



this advantageous distinction. Tamlane, 
old ballad, describes his own rank in the 
procession : — 

" For I ride on a milk-white steed, 
And aye nearest the town ; 
Because I was a christen'd knight, 
They give me that renown." 

Note 38. 

Who ever reeled, where, how, or - 

The prowling fox was trapp'd or slain I — 

P. 142. 
St. John actually used this illustration when 
engaged in confuting the plea of law pn 
for the unfortunate Earl of Strafford : " It was 
true we gave laws to hares and deer, be 
they are beasts of chase ; but it was n-_\ 
counted either cruelty or foul play to knock 
foxes or wolves on the head as they can be 
found, because they are beasts of prey. In a 
word, the law and humanity were alike ; the 
one being more fallacious, and the other more 
barbarous, than in any rge had been vented 
in such an authority."— Clarendon's History 
of the Rebellion. Oxford, 1702, fol. vol. p. 183. 

Note 39. 

his Highland cheer, 

The harderid flesh of mountain deer. — P. 142. 

The Scottish Highlanders in former times, 
had a concise mode of cooking their venison, 
or rather of dispensing with cooking it, which 
appears greatly to have surprised the French 
whom chance made acquainted with it. The 
Vidame of Charters, when a hostage in Eng- 
land, during the reign of Edward VI., was per- 
mitted to travel into Scotland, and penetrated 
as far as to the remote Highlands (au fin fond 
des Sauvages). After agreat hunting party, at 
which a most wonderful quantity of game was 
destroyed, he saw these Scottish Savages 
devour a part of their venison raw, without any 
farther preparation than compressing it be- 
tween two batons of wood, so as to force out 
the blood, and render it extremely hard. This 
they reckoned a great delicacy ; and when the 
Vidame partook of it, his compliance with their 
taste rendered him extremely popular. 

Note 40. 

Not then claim 'd sovereignty his due 

While Albany, with feeble hand, 

Held borrow 'd trunclieon of command. — 

P. 143. 

There is scarcely a more disorderly period in 
Scottish history than that which succeeded the 
battle of Flodden, and occupied the minority of 
James V. Feuds of ancient standing broke out 
like old wounds, and every quarrel among the 
independent nobility, which occurred daily, and 
almost hourly, gave rise to fresh bloodshed. 



590 



APPENDIX. 



Note 41. 

/ only meant 

To show the reed on which you leant, 
Deeming this path you might pursue 
Without a pass from Roderick Dhu. — P. 145. 

This incident, like some other passages in the 
poem, illustrative of the character of the ancient 
Gael, is not imaginary, hut borrowed from fact. 
The Highlanders, with the inconsistency of 
most nations in the same state, were alternately 
capable of great exertions of generosity, and of 
cruel revenge and perfidy. 

'Note 42. 

On Bochastle the mouldering lines, 
Where Rome, the E?npress of the world, 
Of yore her eagle-wings unfurVd. — P. 145. 

The torrent which discharges itself from 
Loch Vennachar, the lowest and eastmost of 
the three lakes which form the scenery adjoin- 
ing to the Trosachs, sweeps through a flat and 
extensive moor, called Bochastle. Upon a small 
eminence, called the Dun of Bochastle, and in- 
deed on the plain itself, are some intrench- 
ments, which have been thought Roman. 
There is, adjacent to Callenrler, a sweet villa, 
the residence of Captain Fairfoul, entitled the 
Roman Camp. 

Note 43. 

See, here, all vantageless I stand, 

A rm'd, like thyself, with single brand. — 

P. 145. 
The duellists of former times did not always 
stand upon those punctilios respecting equality 
of arms, which are now judged essential to fair 
combat. It is true, that in former combats in 
the lists, the parties were, by the judges of the 
field, put as nearly as possible in the same cir- 
cumstances. But in private duel it was often 
otherwise. 

Note 44. 

Ill fared it then with Roderick Dhu, 
That on the field his targe he threw, 
For train 7 d abroad his arms to wield, 
Fitz- James's blade was sword and shield. 

—P. 146. 

A round target of light wood, covered with 
strong leather, and studded with brass or iron, 
"jras a necessary part of a Highlander's equip- 
ment. In charging regular troops, they re- 
ceived the thrust of the bayonet in this buckler, 
twisted it aside, and used the broadsword 
against the encumbered soldier. In the civil 
war of 1745, most of the front rank of the clans 
were thus armed ; and Captain Grose informs 
us, that, in 1747, the privates of the 42nd regi- 
ment, then in Flanders, were, for the most 
part, permitted to carry targets. — Military 
Antiquities, vol. i. p. 164. 



Note 45. 

The burghers hold their sports to-day. — 
P. 148. 
Every burgh of Scotland, of the least note, 
but more especially the considerable towns, had 
their solemn play, or festival, when feats of 
archery were exhibited, and prizes distributed 
to those who excelled in wrestling, hurling the 
bar, and the other gymnastic exercises of the 
period. Stirling, a usual place of royal resid- 
ence, was not likely to be deficient in pomp 
upon such occasions, especially since James V. 
was very partial to them. His ready partici- 
pation in these popular amusements was one 
cause of his acquiring the title of King of the 
Commons, or Rex .Plebeiortun, as Lesley has 
latinized it. The usual prize to the best shooter 
was a silver arrow. Such a one is preserved at 
Selkirk and at Peebles. 

Note 46. 

Robin Hood.— -P. 148. 

The exhibition of this renowned outlaw and 
his band was a favourite frolic at such festivals 
as we are describing. This sporting, in which 
kings did not disdain to be actors, was pro- 
hibited in Scotland upon the Reformation, by a 
statute of the 6th Parliament of Queen Mary, 
c. 61, a.d. 1555, which ordered, under heavy 
penalties, that, "na manner of person be chosen 
Robert Hude, nor Little John, Abbot of Un- 
reason, Queen of May, nor otherwise." But in 
1561, the "rascal multitude," says John Knox, 
" were stirred up to make a Robin Hude, whilk 
enormity was of many years left and damned 
by statute and act of Parliament ; yet would 
they not be forbidden." Accordingly, they 
raised a very serious tumult, and at length 
made prisoners the magistrates who endea- 
voured to suppress it, and would not release 
them till they extorted a formal promise that 
no one should be punished for his share of the 
disturbance. It would seem, from the com- 
plaints of the General Assembly of the Kirk, 
that these profane festivities were continued 
down to 1592. 

Note 47. 

Prize of the wrestling match, tlie King 
To Douglas gave a golden ring. — P. 148. 

The usual prize of a wrestling was a ram and 
a ring, but the animal would have embarrassed 
my story. Thus, in the Cokes Tale of Gamelyn, 
ascribed to Chaucer : 

" There happed to be there beside, 
Tryed a wrestling ; 
And therefore there was y-setten 
A ram and als a ring." 

Note 48. 
These drew not for their fields the siuord 
Like tenants of a feudal lord, 



THE LADY OF THE LAKE. 



591 



Nor otviCd the patriarchal claim 
Of Chieftain in their leaders name ; 
Adventurers they. — P. 151. 

The Scottish armies consisted chiefly of the 
nobility and barons, with their vassals, who 
held lands under them, for military service by 
themselves and their tenants. The patriarchal 
influence exercised by the heads of clans in 
the Highlands and Borders was of a different 
nature, and sometimes at variance with feudal 
principles. It flowed from the /'atria Potestas, 
exercised by the chieftain as representing the 
original father of the whole name, and was 
often obeyed in contradiction to the feudal 
superior. 

Note 49. 
Thou no7v hast glee-maiden and harp ! 
Get thee an ape, and trudge the land, 
The leader of a juggler band. — P. 152. 

The jongleurs, or jugglers, used to call in the 
aid of various assistants, to render these per- 
formances as captivating as possible. The glee- 
maiden was a necessary attendant. Her duty 
was tumbling and dancing ; and therefore the 
Anglo-Saxon version of Saint Mark's Gospel 
states Herodias to have vaulted or tumbled 
before King Herod. . 

Note 50. 

That stirring air that peals on high, 
O'er Derm id's race otir victory. — 
Strike it I— Y. 155. 

There are several instances, at least in tradi- 
tion, of persons so much attached to particular 
tunes, as to require to hear them on their death- 
bed. Such an anecdote is mentioned by the 
late Mr. Riddel of Glenriddel, in his collection 
of Border tunes, respecting an air called the 
" Dandling of the Bairns," for which a certain 
Gallovidian laird is said to have evinced this 
strong mark of partiality. It is popularly told 
of a famous freebooter, that he composed the 
tune known by the name of Macpherson's 
Rant, while under sentence of death, and played 
it at the gallows-tree. Some spirited words 
have been adapted to it by Burns. A similar 
story is recorded of a Welsh bard, who com- 
posed and played on his deathbed the air called 
Dafyddy Garregg Wen. 



Note 51. 
Battle of BeaP an Duine.—Y. 155. 
A skirmish actually took place at a pass thus 
called in the Trosachs, and closed with the 
remarkable incident mentioned in the text. It 
was greatly posterior in date to the reign of 
James V. 

Note 52. 1 

And Snowdoun' s Knight is Scotland's King. 

P. 158. 
This discovery will probably remind the 
reader of the beautiful Arabian tale of 77 Bon- 
docaui. Yet the incident is not borrowed from 
that elegant story, but from Scottish tradition. 
James V., of whom we are treating, was a 
monarch whose good and benevolent intentions 
often rendered his romantic freaks venial, it 
not respectable, since, from his anxious atten- 
tion to the interests of the lower and most op- 
pressed class of his subjects, he was, as we have 
seen, popularly termed the King of the Com- 
mons. For the purpose of seeing that justice 
was) regularly administered, and frequently 
from the less justifiable motive of gallantry, he 
used to traverse the vicinage of his several palaces 
in various disguises. The two excellent comic 
songs, entitled, "The Gaberlunzie man," and 
" We'll gae nae mair a roving," are said to have 
been founded upon the success of his amorous 
adventures when travelling in the disguise of a 
beggar. The latter is perhaps the best comic 
ballad in any language., 

Note 53. 

Stirling's tower 

Of yore the name of Snowdoun claims. — 
P. 159. 
William of Worcester, who wrote about the 
middle of the fifteenth century, calls Stirling 
Castle Snowdoun. Sir David Lindsay bestows 
the same epithet upon it in his complaint of the 
Papingo : 

"Adieu, fair Snawdoun, with thy towers high, 
. Thy chaple-royal, park, and table round ; 
May, June, and July, would I dwell in thee, 
Were I a man, to hear the birdis sound, 
Whilk doth againe thy royal rock rebound." 



592 



APPENDIX. 



THE VISION OF DON RODERICK. 



Note i. 

And Cattreath 's glens with voice of triumph 
rung, 
And mystic Merlin harfd, and gray-hair 'd 
Llywrach sung ! — P. 162. 

This locality may startle those readers who do 
not recollect that much of the ancient poetry 
preserved in Wales refers less to the history of 
the Principality to which that name is now 
limited, than to events which happened in the 
north-west of England and south-west of Scot- 
land, where the Britons for a long time made a 
stand against the Saxons. The battle of Cat- 
treath, lamented by the celebrated Aneurin, is 
supposed, by the learned Dr. Leyden, to have 
been fought on the skirts of Ettrick Forest. It 
is known to the English reader by the para- 
phrase of Gray, beginning, 

i " Had I but the torrent's might 

With headlong rage and wild affright," &c. 

Note 2. 
Minchmore's haunted spring. — P. 163.' 

A belief in the existence and nocturnal revels 
of the fairies still lingers among the vulgar in 
Selkirkshire. A copious fountain upon the 
ridge of Minchmore, called the Cheesewell, is 
supposed to be sacred to these fanciful spirits, 
and it was customary to propitiate them by 
throwing in something upon passing it. A pin 
was the usual oblation ; and the ceremony is 
still sometimes practised, though rather in jest 
than earnest. 

Note 3. 

the rude villager, his labour done, 

In verse spontaneous chants some favour d 
name. — P. 163. 

The flexibility of the Italian and Spanish 
languages, and perhaps the liveliness of their 
genius, renders these countries distinguished 
for the talent of improvisation, which is found 
even among the lowest of the people. It is 
mentioned by Baretti and other travellers. 

Note 4. 

kindling at the deeds ofGraanne.— 

P. 163. 

Over a. name sacred for ages to heroic verse, 

a poet may be allowed to exercise some power. 

I have used the freedom, here and elsewhere, 

to alter the orthography of the name of my 

tallant countryman, in order to apprise the 
outhern reader of its legitimate sound ; — 
Grahame being, on the other side of the 
Tweed, usually pronounced as a dissyllable. 



Note 5. 

What ! will Don Roderick here till morning 
stay, 
To wear in shrift and prayer tJie night away ? 

And are his hours in such dull penance past, 
For fair Florinda's plunder d charms to pay ? 

P. 164. 

Almost all the Spanish historians, as well as 
the voice of tradition, ascribe the invasion of 
the Moors to the forcible violation committed 
by Roderick upon Florinda, called by the 
Moors, Caba or Cava. She was the daughter 
of Count Julian, one of the Gothic monarch's 
principal lieutenants, who, when the crime was 
perpetrated, was engaged in the defence of 
Ceuta against the Moors. In his indignation 
at the ingratitude of his sovereign, and the 
dishonour of his daughter, Count Julian forgot 
the duties of a Christian and a patriot, and, 
forming an alliance with Musa, then the 
Caliph's lieutenant in Africa, he countenanced 
the invasion of Spain by a body of Saracens 
and Africans, commanded by the celebrated 
Tarik ; the issue of which was the defeat and 
death of Roderick, and the occupation of 
almost the whole peninsula by the Moors. 
Voltaire, in his General History, expresses his 
doubts of this popular story, and Gibbon gives 
him some countenance ; but the universal tradi- 
tion is quite sufficient for the purposes of 
poetry. The Spaniards, in detestation of Flo- 
rinda's memory, are said, by Cervantes, never 
to bestow that name on any human female, re- 
serving it for their dogs. 

Note 6. 

T/te Tecbir war-cry and the Lelie's yell. — 
P. 166. 

The Tecbir (derived from the words Alia 
acbar, God is most might)',) was the original 
war-cry of the Saracens. It is celebrated by 
Hughes in the Siege of Damascus : — 
" We heard the Tecbir ; so these Arabs call 

Their shout of onset, when, with loud appeal, 

They challenge Heaven, as if demanding 
conquest." 

The Lelie, well known to the Christians 
during the crusades, is the shout of A lla ilia 
Alia, the Mahomedan confession of faith. It 
is twice used in poetry by my friend Mr. W. 
Stewart Rose, in the romance of Partenopex, 
and in the Crusade of St. Lewis. 

Note 7. 

By Heaven, tJie Moors prevail I the Christians 
. yield I — 

Their coward leader gives for flight the 
sign I 






THE VISION OF DON RODERICK, 



593 



The sceptred craven mounts to quit the field- 
Is not yon steed Orelia r — Yes. 'tis mine ! — 
P. 167. 

Count Julian, the father of the injured Y\o- 
rinda, with the connivance and assistance of 
Oppas, Archbishop of Toledo, invited, in 713, 
the Saracens into Spain. A considerable army 
arrived under the command of Tarik, or Tarif, 
who bequeathed the well-known name of Gib- 
raltar [Gibel al Tarik, or the mountain of 
Tarik) to the place of his landing. Me was 
joined by Count Julian, ravaged Andalusia, 
and took Seville. In 714, they returned with 
a still greater force, and Roderick marched 
into Andalusia at the head of a great army, to 
give them battle. The field was chosen near 
Xeres. [Roderick was defeated, and lied from 
the field of battle on his favourite steed Orelia. 
This famous and matchless charger was found 
riderless on the banks of the river Guadelite, 
with the King's upper garment, buskins, &c. 
It was supposed that in trying to swim the river 
he was drowned. But wild legions as to his 
after fate long prevailed in Spain. — See Sou- 
th ey's " Don Roderick." Ed.] 

Note 8. 

When for the light bolero ready stand, 

The mozo blithe, with gay mnchaca nut. — " 

P. 169. 

The bolero is a very light and active dance, 

much practised by the Spaniards, in which 

castanets are always used. Mozo and vmcka- 

cha. are equivalent to our phrase of lad and 

lass. 

Note 9. 

While trumpets rang, and heralds cried, 
" Castile!"— P. 170. 

The heralds, "at the coronation of a Spanish 
monarch, proclaim his name three times, and 
repeat three times the word Castilla, Castilla, 
Costilla; which, with all other ceremonies, 
was carefully copied in the mock inauguration 
of Joseph Bonaparte. 

Note 10, 

High blazed the war, and long, and far, and 
wide. — P. 171. 

Those who were disposed to believe that 
mere virtue and energy are able of themselves 
to work forth the salvation of an oppressed 
people, surprised in a moment of confidence, 
deprived of their officers, armies, and fort- 
resses, who had every means of resistance to 
seek in the very moment when they were to be 
made use of, and whom the numerous treasons 
among the higher orders deprived of confidence 
in their natural leaders, — those who entertained 
this enthusiastic but delusive opinion may be 
pardoned for expressing their disappointment 
at the protracted warfare in the Peninsula. 
There are, however, another class of persons, 



who, having themselves th 
veneration, or something allied to both, 1 
power of the modern Attila, will nevertl 
give the heroical Spaniards little or n.> ■ 

for the long, stubborn, and unsul 
ance of three years to a power before whom 
their former well-prepared, well-armed, and 
numerous adversaries fell in the coins, 
many months. While these gentlemen plead 
for deference to Bonaparte, and crave 

''Respect for his great place, and bid the devil 
Be duly honour' d for his burning throne,"' 

it may not be altogether unreasonable to claim 
some modification of censure upon those who 
have been long and to a great extent su 
fully resisting this gr< at enemy of mankind. 
That the energy of Spain has not uniformly 
been directed by conduct equal to its \ 
has been too obvious ; that her armies, under 
their complicated disadvantages, have shared 
the fate of such as were defeated after taking 
the field with every possible advantage of arms 
and discipline, is surely not to be wondered at. 
But that a nation, under the circumstances of 
repeated discomfiture, internal treason, and 
the mismanagement incident to a temporary 
and hastily adopted government, should hive 
wasted, by its stubborn, uniform, and pro- 
longed resistance, myriads after myriads of 
those soldiers who had overrun the world — 
that some of its provinces should, like Galicia, 
after being abandoned by their allies, and 
overrun by their enemies, have recovered their 
freedom by their own unassisted exertions ; 
that others, like Catalonia, undismayed by the 
treason which betrayed some fortresses, and 
the force which subdued others, should not only 
have continued their resistance, but have at- 
tained over their victorious enemy a superiority, 
which is even now enabling them to besiege 
and retake the places of strength which had 
been wrested from them, is a tale hitherto un- 
told in the revolutionary war. 

Note it. 

They won not Zaragoza, but her children's 
bloody tomb. — P. 17?. 

The interesting account of Mr. Vaughan has 
made most readers acquainted with the first 
siege of Zaragoza. The last and fatal siege of 
that gallant and devoted city is detailed with 
great eloquence and precision in the " Fxlin- 
burgh Annual Register" for 1809, — a work in 
which the affairs of Spain have been treated 
of with attention corresponding to their deep 
interest, and to the peculiar sources of informa- 
tion open to the historian. The following are 
a few brief extracts from this splendid historical 
narrative : — 

"A breach was soon made in the mud walls, 
and then, as in the former siege, the war was 
carried on in the streets and houses; but the 
French had been taught by experience, that 
in this species of warfare the Zaragozans de- 



i s 



594 



APPENDIX. 



rived a superiority from the feeling and prin- 
ciple which inspired them, and the cause for 
which they fought. The only means of con- 
quering Zaragoza was to destroy it house by 
house, and street by street ; and upon this 
system of destruction they proceeded. Three 
companies of miners, and eight companies of 
sappers, carried on this subterraneous war ; 
the Spaniards, it is said, attempted to oppose 
them by countermines ; these were operations 
to which they were wholly unused, and, ac- 
cording to the French statement, their miners 
were every day discovered and suffocated. 
Meantime, the bombardment was incessantly 
kept up. ' Within the last forty-eight hours,' 
said Palafox in a letter to his friend General 
Doyle, ' 6000 shells have been thrown in. Two- 
thirds of the town are in ruins, but we shall 
perish under the ruins of the remaining third, 
rather than surrender.' In the course of the 
siege, above 17,000 bombs were thrown at the 
town ; the stock of powder with which Zaragoza 
had been stored was exhausted ; they had none 
at last but what they manufactured day by 
day ; and no other cannon-balls than those 
which were shot into the town, and which they 
collected and fired back upon the enemy." 

In the midst of these horrors and privations, 
the pestilence broke out in Zaragoza. To 
various causes, enumerated by the annalist, he 
adds, "scantiness of food, crowded quarters, 
unusual exertion of body, anxiety of mind, and 
the impossibility of recruiting their exhausted 
strength by needful rest, in a city which was 
almost incessantly bombarded, and where every 
hour their sleep was broken by the tremendous 
explosion of mines. There was now no respite, 
either by day or night, for this devoted city ; 
even the Natural order of light and darkness 
was destroyed in Zaragoza ; by day it was in- 
volved in a red sulphureous atmosphere of 
smoke, which hid the face of heaven ; by night, 
the fire of cannons and mortars, and the flames 
of burning houses, kept it in a state of terrific 
illumination. 

"When once the "pestilence had begun, it 
was impossible to check its progress, or confine 
it to one quarter of the city. Hospitals were 
immediately established, — there were above 
thirty of them ; as soon as one was destroyed 
by the bombardment, the patients were re- 
moved to another, and thus the infection was 
carried to every part of Zaragoza. Famine 
aggravated the evil ; the city had probably 
not been sufficiently provided at the com- 
mencement of the siege, and of the provisions 
which it contained, much was destroyed in the 
daily ruin which the mines and bombs had 
effected. Had the Zaragozans and their gar- 
rison proceeded according to military rules, 
they would have surrendered before the end 
of January ; their batteries had then been 
demolished, there were open breaches in many 
parts of their weak walls, and the enemy were 
already within the city. On the 30th, above 
sixty houses were blown up, and the French 



obtained possession of the monasteries of the 
Augustines and Las Monicas, which adjoined 
each other, two of the last defensible places 
left. The enemy forced their way into the 
church ; every column, every chapel, every 
altar, became a point of defence, which was 
repeatedly attacked, taken, and retaken ; the 
pavement was covered with blood, the aisles 
and body of the church strewed with the dead, 
who were trampled under foot by the com- 
batants. In the midst of this conflict, the roof, 
shattered by repeated bombs, fell in ; the few 
who were not crushed, after a short pause, 
which this tremendous shock, and their own 
unexpected escape, occasioned, renewed the 
fight with rekindled fury : fresh parties of the 
enemy poured in; monks and citizens, and 
soldiers, came to the defence, and the contest 
was continued upon the ruins, and the bodies 
of the dead and the dying." 

Yet, seventeen days after sustaining these 
extremities, did the heroic inhabitants of Zara- 
goza continue their defence ; nor did they then 
surrender until their despair had extracted 
from the French generals a capitulation, more 
honourable than has been granted to fortresses 
of the first order. 

Who shall venture to refuse the Zaragozans 
the eulogium conferred upon them by the elo- 
quence of Wordsworth! — "Most gloriously 
have the citizens of Zaragoza proved that the 
true army of Spain, in a contest of this nature, 
is the whole people. The same city has also 
exemplified a melancholy, yea, a dismal truth, 
yet consolatory and full of joy, — that when a 
people are called suddenly to fight for, their 
liberty, and are sorely pressed upon, their best 
field of battle is the floors upon which their 
children have played ; the chambers where 
the family of each man has slept, (his own or 
his neighbours' ;) upon or under the roofs by 
which they have been sheltered ; in the gardens 
of their recreation ; in the street, or in the 
market-place ; before the altars of their temples, 
and among their congregated dwellings, blaz- 
ing or uprooted. 

"The government of Spain must never for- 
get Zaragoza for a moment. Nothing is want- 
ing to produce the same effects everywhere, 
but a leading mind, such as that city was 
blessed with. In the latter contest this has 
been proved ; for Zaragoza contained, at that 
time, bodies of men from almost all parts of 
Spain. The narrative of those two sieges 
should be the manual of every Spaniard. He 
may add to it the ancient stories of Numantia 
and Saguntum ; let him sleep upon the book 
as a pdlow, and, if he be a devout adherent 
to the religion of his country, let him wear it in 
his bosom for his crucifix to rest upon." — 
Wordsworth on tlte Convention of C intra. 

Note 12. 
The Vault oj Destiny.— -P. 174. 
Before finally dismissing the enchanted 



THE VISION OF LOA r kODERICk, 



59! 



cavern of Don Roderick, it may be noticed, 
that the legend occurs in one of Calderon's 
plays, entitled La Virgin del Sagrari 
scene opens with the noise of the chase, and 
Rccisundo, a predecessor of Roderick upon 
the Gothic throne, enters pursuing a stag. 
The animal assumes the form of a man, and 
defies the king to enter the cave, which forms 
the bottom of the scene, and engage with him 
in single combat. The king accepts the chal- 
lenge, and they engage accordingly, but with- 
out advantage on either side, which induces 
the Genie to inform Recisundo, that he is not 
the monarch for whom the adventure of the 
enchanted cavern is reserved, and he proceeds 
to predict the downfall of the Gothic monarchy, 
and of the Christian religion, which shall attend 
the discovery of its mysteries. Recisundo, 
appalled by these prophecies, orders the cavern 
to be secured by a gate and bolts of iron. In 
the second part of the same play, we are in- 
formed that Don Roderick had removed the 
barrier, and transgressed the prohibition of his 
ancestor, and had been apprised by the pro- 
digies which he discovered of the approaching 
ruin of his kingdom. 

Note 13. 

While downward on the land his legions 
press, 
Before them it was rich with vine and flock. 
And smiled like Eden in her summer 
dress ; — 
Behind their wasteful march, a reeking- wilder- 
ness. — P. 174. 

I have ventured to apply to the movements 
of the French army that sublime passage in the 
prophecies of Joel, which seems applicable to 
them in more respects than that I have adopted 
in the text. One would think their ravages, 
their military appointments, the terror which 
they spread among invaded nations, their 
military discipline, their arts of political intrigue 
and deceit, were distinctly pointed out in the 
following verses of Scripture : — 

" 2. A day of darknesse and of gloominesse, 
a day of clouds and of thick darknesse, as the 
morning spread upon the mountains ; a great 
people and a strong, there hath not been ever 
the like, neither shall be any more after it, 
even to the yeares of many generations. 3. 
A fire devoureth before them, and behind them 
a flame burnetii ; the land is as the garden of 
Eden before them, and behinde them a desolate 
wilderness, yea, and nothing shall escape them. 
4. The appearance of them is as the appear- 
ance of horses; and as horsemen, so sh 
runne. 5. Like the noise of chariots on the 
tops of mountains, shall they leap, like the 
noise of a flame of fire that devoureth the 
stubble, as a strong people set in battel array. 
6. Before their face shall the people be much 
pained ; all faces shall gather blacknesse. 7. 
They shall run like mighty men, they shall 
climb the wall like men of warre, and they 



shall march every one in his wayes, and they 
shall not break their ranks. 8. Neith< 1 
one thrust another, they shall walk every one 
in his path : and when they fall upon the 
they shall not be wounded. p. They shall run 
to and fro in the citie ; they shall run upon the 
wall, they shall climbc up upon the n 
they shall enter in at the windows like a thief. 
10. The earth shall quake before them, the 
heavens shall tremble, the sunne and the moon 
shall be dark, and the starres shall withdraw 
tiieir shining." 

In verse 20th also, which announces the re- 
treat of the northern army, described in such 
dreadful colours, into a " land barren and 
desolate," and the dishonour with whii 
alilicted them for having "magnified them- 
selves to do great tilings," there are particulars 
not inapplicable to the retreat of Massena ; — 
Divine Providence having, in all ages, atta< led 
disgrace as the natural punishment of cruelty 
and presumption. 

Note 14. 

The rudest sentinel, in Britain bom, 

With horror paused to view the havoc 
done, 

Gave his poor crust to feed some wretch for- 
lorn. — P. 175. 

Even the unexampled gallantry of the British 
army in the campaign of 1810 — n, although 
they never fought but to conquer, will do them 
less honour in history than their humanity, 
attentive to soften to the utmost of their power 
the horrors which war, in its mildest aspect, 
must always inflict upon the defenceless in- 
habitants of the country in which it is waged, 
and which, on this occasion, were tenfold 
augmented by the barbarous cruelties of the 
French. Soup-kitchens were established by 
subscription among the officers, wherever the 
troops were quartered for any length of time. 
The commissaries contributed the heads, feet, 
&C of the cattle slaughtered for the soldiery ; 
rice, vegetables, and bread, where it could be 
had, were purchased by the officers. Fifty or 
sixty starving peasants were daily fed at one 
of these regimental establishments, and carried 
home the rehes to their famished households. 
The emaciated wretches, who could not crawl 
from weakness, were speedily employed in 
pruning their vines. While pursuing Massena, 
the soldiers evinced the same spirit cf humanity, 
and in manv instances, when reduced them- 
selves to short allowance, from having out- 
marched their supplies, they shared their pit- 
ith the starving inhabitants, who had 
ventured back to view the ruins of their habita- 
tions, burnt by the retreating enemy, and to 
bury the bodies of their relations whom they 
had butchered. Is it possible to know such 
facts without feeling a sort of confidence, that 
those who so well deserve victory are most 
likely to attain it?— It is not the least of Lord 
Wellington's military merits, that the slightest 



S96 



APPENDIX. 



disposition towards marauding meets immediate 
punishment. Independently of all moral obliga- 
tion, the army which is most orderly in a friendly 
country, has always proved most formidable to 
an armed enemy. 

Note 15. 
Vain-glorious fugitive ! — P. 175. 
The French conducted this memorable re- 
treat with much of the fa71faronna.de proper to 
their country, by which they attempt to impose 
upon others, and perhaps on themselves, a 
belief that they are triumphing in the very 
moment of their discomfiture. On the 30th 
March, 18 11, their rear-guard was overtaken 
near Pega by the British cavalry. Being well 
posted, and conceiving themselves safe from 
infantry, (who were indeed many miles in the 
rear,) and from artillery, they indulged them- 
selves in parading their bands of music, and 
actually performed "God save the King." 
Their minstrelsy was, however, deranged by 
the undesired accompaniment of the British 
horse-artillery, on whose part in the concert 
they had not calculated. The surprise was 
sudden, and the rout complete ; for the artillery 
and cavalry did execution upon them for about 
four miles, pursuing at the gallop as often as 
they got beyond the range of the guns. 

Note 16. 

Vainly thy squadrons Jade Assuava's plain, 
And front the flying thunders as they roar, 

With frantic charge and tenfold odds, in 
vain! — P. 175. 

In the severe action of Fuentes d'Honoro, 
upon 5th May, 181 1, the grand mass of the 
French cavalry attacked the right of the 
British position, covered by two guns of the 
horse-artillery, and two squadrons of cavalry. 
After suffering considerably from the fire of the 
guns, which annoyed them in every attempt at 
formation, the enemy turned their wrath en- 
tirely towards them, distributed brandy among 
their troopers, and advanced to carry the field- 
pieces with the desperation of drunken fury. 
They were in nowise checked by the heavy loss 
which they sustained in this daring attempt, 
but closed, and fairly mingled with the British 
cavalry, to whom they bore the proportion of 
ten to one. Captain Ramsay, (let me be per- 
mitted to name a gallant countryman,) who 
commanded the two guns, dismissed them at 
the gallop, and putting himself at the head of 
the mounted artillerymen, ordered them to fall 
upon the French, sabre-in-hand. This very 
unexpected conversion of artillerymen into 
dragoons, contributed greatly to the defeat of 
the enemy already disconcerted by the recep- 
tion they had met from the two British squad- 
rons ; and the appearance of some small re- 
inforcements, notwithstanding the immense 
disproportion of force, put them to absolute 
rout. A coioael or major of their cavalry, and 



many prisoners, (almost all intoxicated,) re- 
mained in our possession. Those who consider 
for a moment the difference of the services, and 
how much an artilleryman is necessarily and 
naturally led to identify his own safety and 
utility with abiding by the tremendous imple- 
ment of war, to the exercise of which he is 
chiefly, if .not exclusively, trained, will know 
how to estimate the presence of mind which 
commanded so bold a manoeuvre, and the 
steadiness and confidence with which it was 
executed. 

Note 17. 

And what avails thee that, for Cameron slain, 
Wild from his flaided ranks the yell was 
given. — P. 175. 

The gallant Colonel Cameron was wounded 
mortally during the desperate contest in the 
streets of the village called Fuentes d'Honoro. 
He fell at the head of his native Highlanders, 
the 71st and 79th, who raised a dreadful shriek 
of grief and rage. They charged, with irresist- 
ible fury, the finest body of French grenadiers 
ever seen, being a part of Bonaparte's selected 
guard. The officer who led the French, a man 
remarkable for stature and symmetry, was 
killed on the spot. The Frenchman who 
stepped out of his rank to take aim at Colonel 
Cameron was also •bayoneted, pierced with a 
thousand wounds, and almost t'orn to pieces by 
the furious Highlanders, who, under the com- 
mand of Colonel Cadogan, bore the enemy out 
of the contested ground at the point of the 
bayonet. Massena pays my countrymen a 
singular compliment in his account of the attack 
and defence of this village, in which he says 
the British lost many officers, and Scotch, 

Note 18. 

O who shall grudge him Albuera's bays, 

Who brought a race regenerate to the field, 
Roused them to emulate their fathers'' praise, 
Temper d their headlong rage, their courage 
steel'd, 
And raised fair Lusitania s fallen shield. — 

P. 176. 
Nothing during the war of Portugal seems, 
to a distinct observer, more deserving of praise, 
than the self-devotion of Field-Marshal Beres- 
ford, who was contented to undertake all the 
hazard of obloquy which might have been 
founded upon any miscarriage in the highly 
important experiment of training the Portuguese 
troops to an improved state of discipline. In 
exposing his military reputation to the censure 
of imprudence from the most moderate, and all 
manner of unutterable calumnies from the 
ignorant and malignant, he placed at stake the 
dearest pledge which a military man had to 
offer, and nothing but the deepest conviction of 
the high and essential importance attached to 
success can be supposed an adequate motive. 
How great the chance of miscarriage was sup- 
posed, may be estimated from the general 



ROKEBY. 



597 



opinion of officers of unquestioned talents and 
experience, possessed of every opportunity of 
information ; how completely the experiment 
has succeeded, and how much the spirit and 
patriotism of our ancient allies had been under- 
rated, is evident, not only from those victories 
in which they have borne a distinguished share, 
hut from the liberal and highly honourable 
manner in which these opinions have been re- 
tracted. The success of this plan, with all its 
important consequences, we owe to the inde- 
fatigable exertions of Field-Marshal Beresford. 

Note 19. 

a race renown 'd of old, 

Whose war-cry of t has waked the battle-swell. 



the conquering shout ofGr&me. — P. 177. 

This stanza alludes to the various achieve- 
ments of the warlike family of Graeme, or Gra- 
hame. They are said, by tradition, to have 



descended from the Scottish chief, under whose 
command his countrymen stormed the wall 
built by the Emperor Scverus between the 
Friths of Forth and Clyde, the fragments of 
which are still popularly called Gramme's Dyke. 
Sir John the Graeme, "the hardy, wight, and 
wise," is well known as the friend of Sir William 
Wallace. Alderne, Kilsythe, and Tibbermuir, 
were scenes of the victories of the heroic Mar- 
quis of Montrose. The pass of Killycrankie is 
famous for the action between King William's 
forces and the Highlanders in 1689, 

"Where glad Dundee in faint huzzas expired." 

It is seldom that one line can number so 
many heroes, and yet more rare when it can 
appeal to the glory of a living descendant in 
support of its ancient renown. 

The allusions to the private history and 
character of General Grahamc may be illus- 
trated by referring to the eloquent and affect- 
ing speech of Mr. Sheridan, upon the vote of 
thanks to the Victors of Barossa. 



ROKEBY 



Note i. 

On Barnard's tozvers, and Tees's stream, &*c. 

P. 180. 
"Barnard's Castle," saith old Leland, 
'standeth stately upon Tees." It is founded 
upon a very high bank, and its ruins impend 
over the river, including within the area a cir- 
cuit of six acres and upwards. This once mag- 
nificent fortress derives its name from its 
founder, Barnard Baliol, the ancestor of the 
short and unfortunate dynasty of that name, 
which succeeded to the Scottish throne under 
the patronage of Edward I. and Edward III. 
Baliol's Tower, afterwards mentioned in the 
poem, is a round tower of great size, situated 
at the western extremity of the building. It 
bears marks of great antiquity, and was re- 
markable for the curious construction of its 
vaulted roof, which has been lately greatly 
injured by the operations of some persons, to 
whom the tower has been leased for the purpose 
of making patent shot ! The prospect from the 
top of Baliol's Tower commands a rich and mag- 
nificent view of the wooded valley of the Tees. 

Note 2. 

no human ear, 

Unsharpen'd by revenge and fear, 
Could e'er distinguish horse's clank. — P, 181. 
I have had occasion to remark, in real life, 
the effect of keen and fervent anxiety in giving 
acuteness to the organs of sense. My gifted 
friend, Miss Joanna Baillie, whose dramatic 
works display such intimate acquaintance with 



the operations of human passion, has not omitted 

this remarkable circumstance : — 

" De Montfort. [Off his guard.) 'Tis Rezen- 

velt : I heard his well-known foot, 
From the first staircase mounting step by step. 
Freb. How quick an ear thou hast for distant 
sound ! 
I heard him not. 

{De Montfort looks embarrassed, and 
is silent.)" 

Note 3." 

The morion 's plumes his visage hide, 

And the buff-coat, an ample fold, 

Mantles his form's gigantic mould.— -P. 181. 

The use of complete suits of armour was 
fallen into disuse during the Civil War, though 
they were still worn by leaders of rank and im- 
portance. "In the reign of King James I.," 
says our military antiquary, "no great altera- 
tions were made in the article of defensive arm- 
our, except that the buff-coat, or jerkin, which 
was originally worn under the cuirass, now be- 
came frequently a substitute for it, it having 
been found that a good buff leather would of 
itself resist the stroke of a sword ; this, how- 
ever, only occasionally took place among the 
light-armed cavalry and infantry, complete 
suits of armour being still used among the 
heavy horse. Buff-coats continued to be worn 
by the city trained-bands till within the memory 
of persons now living, so that defensive armour 
may, in some measure, be said to have termin- 
ated in the same materials with which it be- 



593 



APPENDIX. 



gan, that is, the skins of animals, or leather." — 
GROSE'S Military Antiquities. Lond. 1801, 
4to, vol. ii. p. 

Of the buff-coats, which were worn over the 
corslets, several are yet preserved ; and Cap- 
tain Grose has given an engraving of one which 
was used in the time of Charles I. by Sir 
Francis Rhodes, Bart, of Balbrough-Hall, 
Derbyshire. 

Note 4. 

On /lis dark/ace a scorching clime, 
And toil, had done tlie work of time. 

Death had he seen by sudden blow, ' 

By wasting plague, by tortures slozu. — P. 1S2. 

In this character, I have attempted to sketch 
one of those West Indian adventurers, who, 
during the course of the seventeenth century, 
were popularly known by the name of Buca- 
niers. The successes of the English in the 
predatory incursions upon Spanish America, 
during the reign of Elizabeth, had never been 
forgotten ; and, from that period downward, 
the exploits of Drake and Raleigh were imi- 
tated, upon a smaller scale indeed, but with 
equally desperate valour, by small bands of 
pirates, gathered from'all nations, but chiefly 
French and English. The engrossing policy of 
the Spaniards tended greatly to increase the 
number of these freebooters, from whom their 
commerce and colonies suffered, in the issue, 
dreadful calamity. 

Note 5. 

On Mars ton lieath 

Met, front to front, the ranks of death. — 

P. 182. 
The well-known and desperate battle of 
Long-Marstcn Moor, which terminated so un- 
fortunately for the cause of Charles, commenced 
under very different auspices. Prince Rupert 
had marched with an army of 20,000 men for 
the relief of York, then besieged by Sir Thomas 
Fairfax, at the head of the Parliamentary army, 
and the Earl of Leven, with the Scottish aux- 
iliary forces. In this he so completely suc- 
ceeded, that he compelled the besiegers to re- 
treat to Marston Moor, a large open plain, 
about eight miles distant from the city. Thither 
they were followed by the Prince, who had now 
\inited to his army the garrison of York, pro- 
bably not less than ten thousand men strong, 
under the gallant Marquis (then Earl: f New- 
castle. Whitelocke has recorded, with much 
impartiality, the following particulars of this 
eventful day : — " The right wing of the Parlia- 
ment was commanded by Sir Thomas Fairfax, 
and consisted of all his horse, and three regi- 
ments of the Scots horse ; the left wing was 
commanded by the Earl of Manchester and 
Colonel Cromwell. One body of their foot was 
commanded by Lord Fairfax, and consisted of 
his foot, and two brigades of the Scots foot for 



reserve ; and the main body of the rest of the 
foot was commanded by General Leven. 

"The right wing of the Prince's army was 
commanded by the Earl of Newcastle ; the left 
wing by the Prince himself ; and the main body 
by General Goring, Sir Charles Lucas, and 
Major-General Porter. Thus were both sides 
drawn up into battalia. 

" J u h r 3 r d, 1644. I" this posture both armies 
faced each other, and about seven o'clock in the 
morning the fight began between them. The 
Prince, with his left wing, fell on the Parlia- 
ment's right wing, routed them, and pursued 
them a great way ; the like did General Gor- 
ing, Lucas, and Porter, upon the Parliament's 
main body. The three generals, giving all 
for lost, hasted out of the field, and many 
of their soldiers fled, and threw down their 
arms ; the King's forces too eagerly following 
them, the victory, now almost achieved by them, 
was again snatched out of their hands. For 
Colonel Cromwell, with the brave regiment of 
his countrymen, and Sir Thomas Fairfax, hav- 
ing rallied some of his horse, fell upon the 
Prince's right wing, where the Earl of New- 
castle was, and routed them ; and the rest of 
their companions rallying, they fell altogether 
upon the divided bodies of Rupert and Goring, 
and totally dispersed them, and obtained a 
complete victory, after three hours' fight. 

" From this battle and the pursuit, some 
reckon were buried 7000 Englishmen ; all agree 
that above 3000 of the Prince's men were slain 
in the battle, besides those in the chase, and 
3000 prisoners taken, many of their chief offi- 
cers, twenty-five pieces of ordnance, forty-seven 
colours, 10,000 arms, two waggons of carabins 
and pistols, 130 barrels of powder, and all their 
bag and baggage."— -Whitelocke's Memoirs, 
fol. p. 89. Lond. 1682. 

Note 6. 
Monckton and Milton told the news, 
How t?vops of Roundliea'ls choked the Ouse, 
And many a bonny Scot aghast, 
Spurring his palfrey northward, past, 
Cursing the day when zeal or 7>teed 
First lured their Lesley o'er the Tweed. — 

P. 185. 
Monckton and Milton are villages near the 
river Ouse, and not very distant from the field 
of battle. The particulars of the action were 
violently disputed at the time ; but the follow- 
ing extract, from the Manuscript History of the 
Baronial House of Somerville, is decisive as to 
the flight of the Scottish general, the Earl of 
Leven. The details are given by the author 
of the history on the authority of his father, 
then the representative of the family. This 
curious manuscript was published by consent of 
Lord Somerville. 

"The order of this great battell, wherin 
both armies was neer of ane equall number, 
consisting, to the best calculatione, neer to 
three score thousand men upon both sydes, I 



ROKEBY. 



599 



shall not take upon me to discryve : albeit, from 
the draughts then taken upon the place, and 
information I receaved from this gentleman, 
who being then a volunteer, as having no com- 
mand, had opportunitie and libertic to ryde 
from the one wing of the armie to the other, to 
view all ther several squadrons of horse and 
battallions of foot, how formed, and in what 
manner drawn up, with every other circum- 
stance relating to the fight, and that both as 
to the King's armies and that of the Parlia- 
ment's, amongst whom, untill the engadgment, 
he went from stationc to statione to observe 
ther order and forme ; but that the descriptione 
of this battell, with the various success on both 
sides at the beginning, with the loss of the 
royal armie, and the sad effects that followed 
that misfortune as to his Majestie's interest, 
lies been so often done already by English 
authors, little to ourcommendatione, how justly 
I shall not dispute, seing the truth is, as our 
principal generall fled that night neer fourtie 
inylles from the place of the fight! that part of 
the armie where he commanded being totallie 
routed ; but it is as true, that much of the vic- 
torie is attributed to the good conduct of David 
Lesselie, lievetennent-generall of our horse. 
Cromwell himself, that minione of fortune, but 
the rod of God's wrath, to punish eftirward three 
rebellious nations, disdained not to take orders 
from him, albeit then in the same qualitie of 
command for the Parliament, as being lieve- 
tennent-general to the Earl of Manchester's 
horse, whom, with the assistance of the Scots 
horse, haveing routed the Prince's right wing, 
as he had done that of the Parliament's. These 
two commanders of the horse upon that wing 
wisely restrained the great bodies of their horse 
from persuing these brocken troups, but, wheell- 
ing to the left-hand, falls in upon the naked 
flanks of the Prince's main battallion of foot, 
carrying them doune with great violence; 
nether mett they with any great resistance un- 
till they came to the Marques of Newcastle his 
battallione of White Coats, who, first pepper- 
ing them soundly with ther shott, when they 
came to charge, stoutly bore them up with their 
picks that they could not enter to break them. 
Here the Parliament's horse of that wing re- 
ceaved ther greatest losse, and a stop for some- 
tyme putt to ther hoped-for victorie ; and that 
only by the stout resistance of this gallant bat- 
tallione, which consisted neer of four thousand 
foot, until at length a Scots regiment of dra- 
gouns, commanded by Collonell Frizeall, with 
other two, was brought to open them upon some 
hand, which at length they did, when all the 
ammunitione was spent. Having refused quar- 
ters, every man fell in the same order and ranke 
wherein he had foughten. 

" Be this execution was done, the Prince re- 
turned from the persuite of the right wing of 
the Parliament's horse, which he had beatten 
and followed too farre, to the losse of the bat- 
tell, which certanely, in all men's opinions, he 
might have caryed if he had not been too violent 



upon the pursuite ; which gave his enemies 
upon the left-hand opportunitie to disperse and 
cut doune his infantrie, who, haveing < ' 
the field of all the standing bodies of foot, wer 
now, with many [foot soldiers) of their oune, 
standing ready to receave the charge of his 
allmost spent horses, if he should attempt it : 
which the Prince obscrveing, and seeing all 
lost, he retreated to Yorke with two thousand 
horse. Notwithstanding of this, titer was that 
night such a consternatione in the Parliament 
armies, that it's believed by most of those that 
wer there present, that if the Prince, haveing 
so great a body of horse inteire, i ad made ane 
onfall that night, or the ensueine 
tynie, he had carryed the \ 
hands; for it's certane by the mornii 
he had rallyed a body of ten thou 
wherof ther was neer three thousand 
horse. These, with the assistance of tl 
and garrisoune of Yorke, might have 
much to have recovered the victory, for tl 
of this battell in effect lost the King and his in- 
terest in the three kingdomes ; his Majestie 
never being able eftir this to make head in the 
north, but lost his garrisons every day. 

"As for Generall Lesselie, in the beginning 
of this flight haveing that part of the army quite 
brocken, whare he had placed himself, by the 
valour of the Prince, he imagined, and was 
confermed by the opinione of others ther. upon 
the place with him, that the battell was irre- 
coverably lost, seeing they wer fleeing upon all 
hands ; theirfore they humblie in treated his ex- 
cellence to reteir and wait his better fortune, 
which, without farder advyseing, he did ; and 
never drew bridle untill he came the lenth of 
Leads, having ridden all that night with a cloak 
of draft de berrie about him, belonging to this 
gentleman of whom I write, then in his retinue, 
with many other officers of good qualitie. It 
was neer twelve the next day befor they had 
the certanety who was master of the field, when 
at length ther arryves aneexpress.sentby David 
Lesselie, to acquaint the General they had ob- 
tained a most glorious victory, and that the 
Prince, with his brocken troupes, was fled from 
Yorke. This intelligence was somewhat amaze- 
ing to these gentlemen that had been eye-wit- 
nesses to the disorder of the armie before ther 
retearing, and had then accompanyed the 
General in his flight ; who, being much wearyed 
that evening of the battell with ordering of his 
armie, and now quite spent with his long jour- 
ney in the night, had casten himselfe doune 
upon a bed to rest, when this gentleman come- 
ing quyetly into his chamber, he awoke, and 
hastily cryes out, ' Lievetennent-collonell, what 
news?' — 'All is safe, may it please your Excel- 
lence ; the Parliament's armie hes obtained a 
great victory ; ' and then delyvers the letter. 
The Generall, upon the hearing of this, knocked 
upon his breast, and sayes, ' I would to God I 
had died upon the place ! ' and then opens the 
letter, which, in a few lines, gave ane account 
of the victory, and in the close pressed his 






6oo 



APPENDIX. 






speecty returne to the armie, which he did the 
next day, being accompanyed some mylles back 
by this gentleman, who then takes his leave of 
him, and receaved at parting many expressions 
of kyndenesse, with promises that he would 
never be unmyndful of his care and respect to- 
wards him ; and in the end he intreats him to 
present his service to all his friends and ac- 
quaintances in Scodand. Thereftir the Generall 
sets forward in his journey for the armie, 

in order to his transportatione for Scotland, 
where he arryved sex dayes eltir the fight of 
Mestoune Muir, and gave the first true account 
and descriptione of that great battell, wherein 
the Covenanters then gloryed soe much, that 
they impiously boasted the Lord had now 
ly appeared for his cause and people ; it 
being ordinary for them, dureing the whole 
time of this warre, to attribute the greatnes of 
their success to the goodnes and justice of 
ther cause, untill Divine Justice trysted them 
with some crosse dispensatione, and then you 
might have heard this language from them, 
' That it pleases the Lord to give his oune the 
heavyest end of the tree to bear, that the saints 
and the people of God must still be sufferers 
while they are here away, that the malignant 
party was God's rod to punish them for ther 
unthankfullnesse, which in the end he will cast 
into the fire ; ' with a thousand other expres- 
sions and scripture citations, prophanely and 
blasphemously uttered by them, to palliate ther 
villainie and rebellion." — Mem circs of tlte 
SomervilUs. — Edin. 1S15. 

Note 7. 

With his barb'd Jiorse, fresh tidings say, 
Stout Cromwell has redeem' d tlte day . — P. 185. 

Cromwell, with his regiment of cuirassiers, 
had a principal share in turning the fate of the 
day at Marston Moor ; which was equa 1 .!; 
ter of triumph to the Independents, and of 
grief and heart-burning to the Presbyterians 
and to the Scottish. 

Note S. 

Do not my ?:. 

Of Percy Rede, tlie tragic song, 
Train d forward to his bloody fall, 
By Girsonfield, that treaclierous Hall — 
P. 185. 
In a poem, entitled, "The Lay of the Reed- 
Bkfinstrei," Newcastle, 1809, this tale, 
with many others peculiar to the valley of the 
Reed, is commemorated :— " The particulars of 
the trac y of Parcy Reed of 'I - 

end, and the Halls of Girsonfield, the author 
hr.d from a descendant of the family of Reed. 
From his account, it appears that Percival 
Reed, Esquire, a keeper of Reedsdale, n 
trayed by the Halls (hence denominated the 



of the name . of Crosier, who slew him at 
Batinghope, near the source of the Reed. 

" The Halls were, after the murder of Parcy 
Reed, held in such universal abhorrence and 
contempt by the inhabitants of Reedsdale, for 
their cowardly and treacherous behaviour, that 
they were obliged to leave the country." In 
another passage, we are informed that the 
ghost of the injured Borderer is supposed to 
haunt the banks of a brook called the Prin- 
gle. These Reeds of Troughend were a very 
ancient family, as may be conjectured from 
their deriving their surname from the river on 
which they had their mansion. An epitaph on 
one of their tombs affirms that the family held 
their lands of Troughend, which are situated on 
the Reed, nearly opposite to Otterburn, for the 
incredible space of nine hundred years. 



Note 9. 

At id tiear tlie spot that ga- 

The moated mound of Risingham, 

Where Reed upon her margin sees 

Woodbitrne's cottages and trees, ' 
Some ancient sculptor's art has shown 
An outlaw's itnageon tlie stone. — P. 1 

Risingham, upon the river Reed, near the 
beautiful hamlet of Woodburn, is an ancient 
Roman statioD, formerly called Habitancum. 
Camden says, that in Ins time the popular ac- 
count bore, that it had been the abode of a 
: r giant, called Magon ; and appeals, in 
support of tnis tradition, as well as to the ety- 
of Risingham, or Reisenham, which 
.-;, in German, the habitation of the 
giants, to two Roman altars taken out of the 
.-.scribed, Deo Mogoxti Cadexorum. 
About half a mile distant from Risingham, upon 
an eminence covered with scattered birch-trees, 
and fragments of rock, there is cut upon a large 
rock, in alto relievo, a remarkable figure, called 
Robin of Risingham, or Robin of Reedsdale. 
It presents a hunter, with his bow raised in one 
hand, and in the other what seems to be a bare. 
There is a quiver at the back of the figure, and 
he is dressed in a long coat, or kirtle, coming 

: a the knees, and meeting close, 
girdle bound round him. Dr. Horsley, who 
saw all monuments of antiquity with Roman 
inclines to think this figure a Roman 
: and certainty the bow is rather of the 
than of that which was so formid- 
able in the hand of the English archers of the 
But the rudeness of the whole 
prevents our founding strongly upon 
racy of proportion. The popular 
sents a giant, whose 
z 1 at Woodburn, and he himself at 
Risingham. It adds, that they subsisted by 
g, and that one of them, finding the 
game become too scarce to support them, 
poisoned his companion, in whose memc: 

_' raved. What strange and 
;ircumstance may be concealed under 



ROKEB V. 



601 



this legend, or whether it is utterly apocryphal, 
it is now impossible to discover. 

Note io. 

Do thou revere 

The statutes of the Bucanier. — P. 1S5. 

The " statutes of the Bucaniers " were, in 
reality, more equitable than could have been 
expected from the state of society under which 
they had been formed. They chiefly related, 
as may readily be conjectured, to the distribu- 
tion and the inheritance of their plunder. 

When the expedition was completed, the fund 
of prize-money acquired was thrown together, 
each party taking his oath that he had retained 
or concealed no part of the common stock. If any 
one transgressed in this important particular, 
the punishment was. his being set ashore on 
some desert key or island, to shift for himself 
as he could. The owners of the vessel had 
then their share assigned for the expenses of 
the outfit. These were generally old pirates, 
settled at Tobago, Jamaica, St. Domingo, or 
some other French or English settlement. The 
surgeon's and carpenter's salaries, with the 
price of provisions and ammunition, were also 
defrayed. Then followed the compensation 
due to the maimed and wounded, rated ac- 
cording to the damage they had sustained ; 
as six hundred pieces of eight, or six slaves, 
for the loss of an arm or leg, and so in pro- 
portion. 

"After this act of justice and humanity, the 
remainder of the booty was divided into as 
many shares as there were Bucaniers. The 
commander could only lay claim to a 
share, as the rest ; but they complimented him 
with two or tiiree, in proportion as he had ac- 
quitted himself to their satisfaction. When the 
vessel was not the property of the whole com- 
pany, the persons who had fitted it out, and 
furnished it with necessary arms and ammuni- 
tion, were entitled to a third of all the prizes. 
Favour had never any influence in the division 
of the booty, for every share was determined 
by lot. Instances of such rigid justice as this 
are not easily met with, and they extended 
even to the dead. Their share was given to 
the man who was known to be their companion 
when alive, and therefore their heir. If the 
person who had been killed had no intimate, 
his part was sent to his relations, when they 
were known. If there were no friends nor 
relations, it was distributed in charity to the 
poor and to churches, which were to pray for 
the person in whose name these benefactions 
were given, the fruits of inhuman, but neces- 
sary piratical plunder.'' — Ravnal's History 
of E:. ements in the East and 

Indies, by Justamoiid, Lond. 1776, Svo, 
iii. p. 41. 



Note xi. 

The course 0/ Tees.— V. 188. * 

The view from Barnard Castle commands 
the rich and magnificent valley of Tees, Im- 
mediately adjacent to the river, the banks 
are very thickly wooded ; at a little distance 
they are more open and cultivated ; but. 
interspersed with hedge-rows, and wit 
lated trees of great size and age, they still re- 
tain the richness cf woodland scenery. The 
river itself flows in a deep trench of solid 
rock, chiefly limestone and marble. The finest 
view of its romantic course is from a handsome 
modern-built bridge over the Tees, by the late 
Mr. Morritt of Rokeby. In I. eland's time, 
the marble quarries seem to have been of 
some value. " Hard under the cliff by Eglis- 
ton, is found on eche side of Tese very fair 
marble, wont to be taken up booth by mar- 
belers of Barnardes Castelle and of Egliston, 
and partly to have been wrought by them, 
and partly sold on wrought to others." — Itine- 
rary. Oxford, 1768, 8vo, p. 88. 

Note 12. 
Egliston' s gray ruins, — P. 189. 

The ruins of this abbey, or priory, for Tan- 
ner calls it the former, and Leland the latter,) 
are beautifully situated upon the angle formed 
by a little dell called Thorsgill, at its junction 
with the Tees. 

Note 13. 

the mound. 

Raised by that Legion long renoivriii. 
Whose votive shrine asserts their claim, 
0/ pious, faithful, conquering fame. — 
P. 189. 
Close behind the George Inn at Greta Bridge, 
there is a well-preserved Roman encampment, 
surrounded with a triple ditch, lying between 
the river Greta and a brook called the Tutta. 
The four entrances are easily to be discerned. 
Very many Roman altars and monuments 
have been found in the vicinity, most of which 
are preserved at Rokeby by my friend Ml 
Morritt. 

Note 14. 

Rokeby s turrets high. — P. 189. 

This ancient manor long gave name to a 
family by whom it is said to have been pos- 
sessed from the Conquest downward, and who 
are at different times distinguished in history. 
It was the Baron of Rokeby who finally de- 
feated the insurrection of the Earl of North- 
umberland, tempore Hen. I If. The Rokeby, 
or Rokesby, family continued to be distin- 
guished until the great Civil War, when, hav- 
ing embraced the cause of Charles I., they suf- 
fered severely by fines and confiscations. The 
estate thin passed from its ancient possessors 
to the family of the Robinsons, from whom it 



6o2 



APPENDIX. 



was purchased by the father of my valued friend, 
the present proprietor. 

Note 15. 

A stent and lone, yet lovely road, 
As e'er the foot of Minstrel trode. — 

P. 189. 
What follows is an attempt to describe the 
romantic glen, or rather ravine, through which 
the Greta finds a passage between Rokeby and 
Mortham ; the former situated upon the left 
bank of Greta, the latter on the right bank, 
about half a mile nearer to its junction with the 
Tees. 

Note 16. 

tell 

How whistle rash bids tempests roar. — 

P. 190. 
That this is a general superstition is well 
known to all who have been on ship-board, or 
who have conversed with seamen. The most 
formidable whistler that I remember to have 
met with was the apparition of a certain Mrs. 
Leakey, who, about 1636, resided, we are told, 
at Mynehead, in Somerset, where her only 
son drove a considerable trade between that 
port and Waterford, and was owner of several 
vessels. This old gentlewoman was of a social 
disposition, and so acceptable to her friends, 
that they used to say to her and to each other, 
it were a pity such an excellent good-natured 
old lady should die ; to which she was wont to 
reply, that whatever pleasure they might find 
in her company just now, they would not greatly 
like to see or converse with her after death,which 
nevertheless she was apt to think might hap- 
pen. Accordingly, after her death and funeral, 
she began to appear to various persons by night 
and by noonday, in her own house, in the town 
and fields, at sea and upon shore. So far had 
she departed from her former urbanity, that 
she is recorded to have kicked a doctor of 
medicine for his impolite negligence in omit- 
ting to hand her over a stile. It was also her 
humour to appear upon the quay, and call for 
a boat. But especially as soon as any of her 
son's ships approached the harbour, "this 
ghost would appear in the same garb and like- 
ness as when she was alive, and, standing at 
the mainmast, would blow with a whistle, and 
though it were never so great a calm, yet im- 
mediately there would arise a most dreadful 
storm, that would break, wreck, and drown 
ship and goods." When she had thus pro- 
ceeded until her son had neither cash to 
freight a vessel, nor could have procured men 
to sail in it, she began to attack the persons of 
his family, and actually strangled their only 
child in the cradle. The rest of her story, 
showing how the spectre looked over the 
shoulder of her daughter-in-law, while dress- 
ing her hair in the looking-glass, and how Mrs. 
Leakey the younger took courage to address 



her, and how the beldame despatched her to 
an Irish prelate, famous for his crimes and mis- 
fortunes, to exhort him to repentance, and to 
apprize him that otherwise he would be hanged, 
and how the bishop was satisfied with replying 
that if he was born to be hanged, he should 
not be drowned ; — all these, with many more 
particulars, may be found at the end of one of 
John Dunton's publications, called Athenian- 
ism, London, 17 10, where the tale is engrossed 
under the title of The Apparition Evidence. 

Note 17. 

Of Erich's cap and Elmo's light. — P. 190. 

" This Ericus, King of Sweden, in his time 
was held second to none in the magical art; 
and he was so familiar with the evil spirits, 
which he exceedingly adored, that which way 
soever he turned his cap, the wind would pre- 
sently blow that way. From this occasion he 
was called Windy Cap ; and many men be- 
lieved that Regnerus, King of Denmark, by 
the conduct of this Ericus, who was his nephew, 
did happily extend his piracy into the most re- 
mote parts of the earth, and conquered many 
countries and fenced cities by his cunning, and 
at last was his coadjutor; that by the consent 
of the nobles, he should be chosen King of 
Sweden, which continued a long time with him 
very happily, untilhe died of old age." — Olaus, 
ut supra, p. 40. 

Note i3. 

The Demon frigate. — P. 190. 

This is an allusion to a well-known nautical 
superstition concerning a fantastic vessel, called 
by sailors the Flying Dutchman, and supposed 
to be Seen about the latitude of the Cape of 
Good Hope. She is distinguished from earthly 
vessels by bearing a press of sail when all 
others are unable, from stress of weather, to 
show an inch of canvas. The cause of her 
wandering is not altogether certain ; but the 
general account is, that she was originally a 
vessel loaded with great wealth, on board of 
which some horrid act of murder and piracy 
had been committed ; that the plague broke 
out among the wicked crew who had perpe- 
trated the crime, and that they sailed in vain 
from port to port, offering, us the price of 
shelter, the whole of their ill-gotten wealth ; 
that they were excluded from ever}' harbour, 
for fear of the contagion which was devouring 
them ; and that, as a punishment of their 
crimes, the apparition of the ship still con- 
tinues to haunt those seas in which the cata- 
strophe took place, and is considered by the 
mariners as the worst of all possible omens. 

Note 19. 

by some desert isle or hey.— P. 191. 

What contributed much to the security of the 
Bucaniers about the Windward Islands, was the 



ROKEBY. 



603 



great number of little islets, called in that 
country keys. These are small sandy patches, 
appearing just above the surface of the ocean, 
covered only with a few bushes and weeds, but 
sometimes affording springs of water, and, in 
general, much frequented by turtle. Such little 
.ininhabited spots afforded the pirates good 
harbours, either for refitting or for the purpose 
of ambush ; they were occasionally the hiding- 
place of their treasure, and often afforded a 
shelter to themselves. As many of the atroci- 
ties which they practised on their prisoners were 
committed in such spots, there are some of these 
keys which even now have an indifferent reput- 
ation among seamen, and where they are with 
difficulty prevailed on to remain ashore at night, 
on account of the visionary terrors incident to 
places which have been thus contaminated. 

Note 20. 
Before the gate of ' Mortham stood. — P. 191. 

The castle of Mortham, which Leland terms 
"Mr. Rokesby's Place, in ripa citer., scant a 
quarter of a mile from Greta Bridge, and not a 
quarter of a mile beneath into Tees," is a pic- 
turesque tower, surrounded by buildings of 
different ages, now converted into a farm-house 
and offices. 

The situation is eminently beautiful, occupy- 
ing a high bank, at the bottom of which the 
Greta winds out of the dark, narrow, and ro- 
mantic dell, which the text has attempted to 
describe, and flows onward through a more open 
valley to meet the Tees about a quarter of a 
mile from the castle. Mortham is surrounded 
by old trees, happily and widely grouped with 
Air. Morritt's new plantations. 

Note 21. 

There dig, and tomb your precious heap, 
And bid the dead your treasu?-e keep. — 

P. 192. 

If time did not permit the Bucaniers to lavish 
away their plunder in their usual debaucheries, 
they were wont to hide it, with many supersti- 
tious solemnities, in the desert islands and keys 
which they frequented, and where much trea- 
sure, whose lawless owners perished without 
reclaiming it, is still supposed to be concealed. 
The most cruel of mankind are often the most 
superstitious ; and these pirates are said to have 
had recourse to a horrid ritual, in crder to se- 
cure an unearthly guardian to their treasures. 
They killed a Negro or Spaniard, and buried 
him with the treasure, believing that his spirit 
would haunt the spot, and terrify away all in- 
truders. I cannot produce any other authority 
on which this custom is ascribed to them than 
than of maritime tradition, which is, however, 
amply sufficient for the purposes of poetry. 



Note 22. 



The power 



That unsubdued and lurking lies 
To take the felon by surprise, 
And force him, as by magic Spell. 

In his despite his guilt to tell- i 

All who are conversant with the administra- 
tion of criminal justice, must remember many 
occasions in which malefactors appear to have 
conducted themselves with a species of infatua- 
tion, cither by making unnecessary confidences 
respecting their guilt, or by sudden and in- 
voluntary allusions to circumstances by which 
it could not fail to be exposed. A remarkable 
instance occurred in the celebrated case of 
Eugene Aram. A skeleton being found near 
Knaresborough, was supposed, by the persons 
who gathered around the spot, to be the re- 
mains of one Clarke, who had disappeared 
some years before, under circumstances leading 
to a suspicion of his having been murdered. 
One Houseman, who had mingled in the crowd, 
suddenly said, while looking at the skeleton, 
and hearing the opinion which was buzzed 
around, "That is no more Dan Clarke's bone 
than it is mine ! " — a sentiment expressed so po- 
sitively, and with such peculiarity of manner, as 
to lead all who heard him to infer that lie must 
necessarily know where the real body had been 
interred. Accordingly, being apprehended, he 
confessed having assisted Eugene Aram to 
murder Clarke, and to hide his body in Saint 
Robert's Cave. It happened to the author 
himself, while conversing with a person accused 
of an atrocious crime, for the purpose of render- 
ing him professional assistance upon his trial, to 
hear the prisoner, after the most solemn and 
reiterated protestations that he was guiltless, 
suddenly, and, as it were, involuntarily, in the 
course of his communications, make such an 
admission as was altogether incompatible with 
innocence. 

Note 23. 

Brackeubury's dismal tower. — P. 194. 

This tower has been already mentioned. It 
is situated near the north-eastern extremity of 
the wall which encloses Barnard Castle, and is 
traditionally said to have been the prison. By 
an odd coincidence, it bears a name which we 
naturally connect with imprisonment, from its 
being that of Sir Robert Brackenbury, lieuten- 
ant of the Tower of London under Edward IV. 
and Richard III. 

Note 24. 

Nobles and knights, so proud of late, 
Must fi tie for freedom and estate. 

Right heavy shall his ransom be, 
Unless that maid compound with thee. — 
P. 195. 
After the battle of Marston Moor, the Earl 
of Newcastle retired beyond sea in disgust, and 



many of his followers laid down their arms, and 
made the best composition they could with the 
Committees of Parliament. Fines were im- 
posed upon them in proportion to their estates 
and degrees of delinquency, and these fines 
were often bestowed upon such persons as had 
deserved well of the Commons. In some cir- 
cumstances it happened, that the oppressed 
cavaliers were fain to form family alliances 
with some powerful person among the triumph- 
ant party. 

Note 25. 

The Indian, prowling for his prey, 
Who hears the settlers track his way. — 
P. 195. 
The patience, abstinence, and ingenuity ex- 
erted by the North American Indians, when in 
pursuit of plunder or vengeance, is the most 
distinguished feature in their character ; and 
the activity and address which they display in 
their retreat is equally surprising. 

Note 26. 

In Redesdale his youth had heard, 
Each art her wily dalesmen dared, 
When Rooken-edge, and Redswair high, 
To bugle rung and bloodhound's cry. — 

P. 195. 
" What manner of cattle-stealers they are that 
inhabit these valleys in the marches of both 
kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotche man himself, 
and Bishop of Ross, will inform you. They 
sally out of their own borders in the night, in 
troops, through unfrequented by-ways and 
many intricate windings. All the day-time 
they refresh themselves and their horses in 
lurking holes they had pitched upon before, 
till they arrive in the dark in those places they 
have a design upon. As soon as they have 
seized upon the booty, they, in like manner, 
return home in the night, through blind ways, 
and fetching many a compass. The more skil- 
ful any captain is to pass through those wild 
deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, 
in the thickest mists, his reputation is the 
greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an 
excellent head. And they are so very cunning, 
that they seldom have their booty taken from 
them, unless sometimes when, by the help of 
blood-hounds following them exactly upon the 
track, they may chance to fall into the hands of 
their adversaries. When being taken, they 
have so much persuasive eloquence, and so 
many smooth insinuating words at command, 
that if they do not move their judges, nay, and 
even their adversaries, (notwithstanding the 
severity of their natures,) to have mercy, yet 
they incite them to admiration and compas- 
sion." — Camden's Britannia. 

The inhabitants of the valleys of Tyne and 
Reed were, in ancient times, so inordinately 
addicted to these depredations, that in 1564, 
the Incorporated Merchant-adventurers of 
Newcastle made a law that none born in these 



districts should be admitted apprentice. The 
inhabitants are stated to be so generally addicted 
to rapine, that no faith should be reposed in 
those proceeding from " such lewde and wicked 
progenitors." This regulation continued to 
stand unrepealed until 1771. A beggar, in an 
old play, describes himself as "born in Redes- 
dale, in Northumberland, and come of a wight- 
riding surname, called the Robsons, good honest 
men and true, saving a little shifting for their 
living, God help them!" — a description which 
would have applied to most Borderers on both 
sides. 

Reidswair, famed for a skirmish to which it 
gives name, [see Border Minstrelsy, vol. ii. p. 
15,] is on the very edge of the Carter fell, which 
divides England from Scotland. The Rooken 
is a place upon Reedwater. Bertram, being 
described as a native of these dales, where the 
habits of hostile depredation long survived the 
union of the crowns, may have been, in some 
degree, prepared by education for the exercise 
of a similar trade in the wars of the Bucaniers. 

Note 27. 

Hiding his face, lestfoemen spy, 

The sparkle of his swarthy eye. — P. 196. 

After one of the recent battles, in which the 
Irish rebels were defeated, one of their most 
active leaders was found in a bog, in which he 
was immersed up to the shoulders, while his 
head was concealed by an impending ledge of 
turf. Being detected and seized, notwithstand- 
ing his precaution, he became solicitous to know 
how his retreat had been discovered. " I 
caught," answered the Sutherland Highlander, 
by whom he was taken, " the sparkle of your 
eye." Those who are accustomed to mark 
hares upon their form usually discover them by 
the same circumstance. 

Note 28. 

Here stood a wretch, prepared to change 
His soul's redemption for revenge ! — P. 197. 

It is agreed by all the writers upon magic 
and witchcraft, that revenge was the most com- 
mon motive for the pretended compact between 
Satan and his vassals. 

Note 29. 

Of my marauding on the clowns. 

Of Calverley aiid Bradford downs. — 

P. 197. 
The troops of the King, when they first took 
the field, were as well disciplined as could be 
expected from circumstances. But as the cir- 
cumstances of Charles became less favourable, 
and his funds for regularly paying his forces 
decreased, habits of military licence prevailed 
among them in greater excess. Lacy the 
player, who served his master during the Civil 
War, brought out, after the Restoration, a piece 
called The Old Troop, in which he seems to 



ROKEBY. 



60: 



have commemorated some real incidents which 
occurred in his military career. The names of 
the officers of the Troop sufficiently express 
their habits. We have Fleaflint Plunder- 
master-General, Captain Ferret - farm, and 
Quarter-master Burn-drop. The officers of 
the Troop are in league with these worthies, 
and connive at their plundering the country for 
a suitable share in the booty. All this was 
undoubtedly drawn from the life, which Lacy 
had an opportunity to study. The moral of the 
whole is comprehended in a rebuke given to the 
lieutenant, whose disorders in the country are 
said to prejudice the King's cause more than 
his courage in the field could recompense. The 
piece is by no means void of farcical humour. 

Note 30. 

BrignalVs woods, and ScargilVs, wave, 

E'en now, o'er many a sister cave. — P. 198. 

The banks of the Greta, below Rutherford 
Bridge, abound in seams of grayish slate, which 
are wrought in some places to a very great 
depth under ground, thus forming artificial 
caverns, which, when the seam has been ex- 
hausted, are .gradually hidden by the underwood 
which grows in profusion upon the romantic 
banks of the river. In times of public con- 
fusion, they might be well adapted to the 
purposes of banditti. 

Note 31. 

When SJ>ain waged warfare with our land. — 
P. 200. 
There was a short war with Spain in 1625-6, 
which will be found to agree pretty well with 
the chronology of the poem. But probably 
Bertram held an opinion very common among 
the maritime heroes of the age, that, " there 
was no peace beyond the Line." The Spanish 
gitarda-costas were constantly employed in 
aggressions upon the trade and settlements of 
the English and French ; and, by their own 
severities, gave room for the system of buca- 
niering, at first adopted in self-defence and re- 
taliation, and afterwards persevered in from 
habit and thirst of plunder. 

Note 32. 
our comrades' strife. — P. 200. 

The laws of the Bucaniers, and their success- 
ors the Pirates, however severe and equitable, 
were, like other laws, often set aside by the 
stronger party. Their quarrels about the divi- 
sion of the spoil fill their history, and they as 
frequently arose out of mere frolic, or the ty- 
rannical humour of their chiefs. An anecdote 
of Teach (called Blackbeard), shows that their 
habitual indifference for human life extended to 
their companions, as well as their enemies and 
captives. 

" One night, drinking in his cabin with 
Hands, the pilot, and another man, Black- 



beard, without any provocation, privately draws 
out a small pair of pistols, and cocks them 
under the table, which being perceived by the 
man, he withdrew upon deck, leaving II 
the pilot, and the captain together. When the 
pistols were ready, he blew out the candles, 
and, crossing his hands, discharged them at his 
company. Hands, the master, was shot through 
the knee, and lamed for life: the other pUtil 
did no execution." — Johnson's History of 
Pirates. Lond. 1733, 8vo, vol. i. p. 38. 

Note 33. 

Song. — Adieu for evermore. — P. 202. 

The last verse of this song is taken from the 
fragment of an old Scottish ballad, of which 
I only recollected two verses when the first 
edition of Rokcby was published. Mr. Thomas 
Sheridan kindly pointed out to me an entire 
copy of this beautiful song, which seems to ex- 
press the fortunes of some followers of the 
Stuart family : — 

" It was a' for our rightful king 
That we left fair Scotland's strand, 
It was a' for our rightful king 
That we e'er saw Irish land, 

My dear, 
That we e'er saw Irish land. 

" Now all is done that man can do 

And all is done in vain ! 

My love ! my native land, adieu ! 

For I must cross the main, 

My dear, 

For I must cross the main. 
"He turned him round and right about, 

All on the Irish shore, 

He gave his bridle-reins a shake, 

With, Adieu for evermore, 

My dear ! 

Adieu for evermore ! 

"The soldier frae the war returns, 
And the merchant frae the main, 
But I hae parted wi' my love, 
And ne'er to meet again, 

My dear, 
And ne'er to meet again. 
"When day is gone and night is come, 
And a' are boun' to sleep, 
I think on them that's far awa* 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear, 
The lee-lang night, and weep." 



Note 34. 
Rere-cross on Stanmore. 



-P. 202. 



This is a fragment of an old cross, with its 
pediment, surrounded by an intrenchment, upon 
the very summit of the waste ridge of Stan- 
more, near a small house of entertainment. The 
situation of the cross, and the pains taken to 



6o6 



APPENDIX. 



defend it, seem to indicate that it was intended 
for a land-mark of importance. 

Note 35. 

Hast thou lodged our deer* — P. 202. 

The duty of the ranger, or pricker, was first 
to lodge or harbour the deer ; /. e. to discover 
his retreat, and then to make his report to his 
prince or master. 

Note 36. 

When Denmark's raven soared on high, 
Triumphant through Northumbrian sky, 
Till, hovering near, her fatal croak 
Bade Rcgeds Brito7is dread the yoke. — 

P. 203. 

About the year of God 866, the Danes, under 
their celebrated leaders Inguar (more properly 
Agnar), and Hubba, sons, it is said, of the still 
more celebrated Regnar Lodbrog, invaded 
Northumberland, bringing with them the ma- 
gical standard, so often mentioned in poetry, 
called Reafen, or Rumfan, from its bearing 
the figure of a raven : — 

" Wrought by the sisters of the Danish king, 
Of furious Ivar in a midnight hour : 
While the sick moon at their enchanted song 
Wrapt in pale tempest, labour'd through the 

clolids, 
The demons of destruction then, they say, 
Were all abroad, and mixing with the woof 
Their, baleful power : The sisters ever sung, 
' Shake, standard, shake this ruin on our 

foes.'" 

Thomson and Mallet's Alfred. 

F The Danes renewed and extended their in- 
cursions, and began to colonize, establishing a 
kind of capital at York, from which they spread 
their conquests and incursions in every direc- 
tion. Stanmore, which divides the mountains 
of Westmoreland and Cumberland, was proba- 
bly the boundary of the Danish kingdom in 
that direction. The district to the west, known 
in ancient British history by the name of 
Reged, had never been conquered by the 
Saxons, and continued to maintain a precarious 
independence until it was ceded to Malcolm, 
King of Scots, by William the Conqueror, pro- 
bably on account of its similarity in language 
and manners to the neighbouring British king- 
dom of Strath-Clyde. 

if- Upon the extent and duration of the Danish 
sovereignty in Northumberland, the curious 
may consult the various authorities quoted in 
the Gesta et Vestigia Danorum extra Daniam, 
torn. ii. p. 40. The most powerful of their 
Northumbrian leaders seems to have been 
Ivar, called, from the extent of his conquests, 
Widfatn, that is, The Strider. 



Note 37. 

Beneath the shade the Northmen came, 
Fi.vd on each vale a Runic name. — P. 203. 
The heathen Danes have left several traces 
of their religion in the upper part of Teesdalc. 
Balder-garth-, which derives its name from the 
unfortunate son of Odin, is a tract of waste 
land on the very ridge of Stanmore ; and a 
brook, which falls into the Tees near Barnard 
Castle, is named after the same deity. A field 
upon the banks of the Tees is also termed 
Woden-Croft, from the supreme deity of the 
Edda. 

Note 38.. 

Who has not heard how brave O'Neale 

In English blood imbrued his steel ? — P. 204. 

The O'Neale here meant, for more than one 
succeeded to the chieftainship during the reign 
of Elizabeth, was Hugh, the grandson of Con 
O'Neale, called Con Bacco, or the Lame. His 
father, Matthew O'Kelly, was illegitimate, and, 
being the son of a blacksmith's wife, was 
usually called Matthew the Blacksmith. _ His 
father, nevertheless, destined his succession to 
him ; and he was created, by Elizabeth, Baron 
of Dungannon. Upon the death of Con Bacco, 
this Matthew was slain by his brother. Hugh 
narrowly escaped the same fate, and was pro- 
tected by the English. Shane O'Neale, his 
uncle, called Shane Dymas, was succeeded by 
Turlougt. Lynogh O'Neale ; after whose death 
Hugh, having assumed the chieftainship, be- 
came nearly as formidable to the English as 
any by whom it had been possessed. He re- 
belled repeatedly, and as often made submis- 
sions, of which it was usually a condition that 
he should not any longer assume the title of 
O'Neale; in lien of which he was created Earl 
of Tyrone. But this condition he never ob- 
served longer than until the pressure of superior 
force was withdrawn. His baffling the gallant 
Earl of Essex in the field, and over-reaching 
him in a treaty, was the induction to that noble- 
man's tragedy. Lord Mountjoy succeeded in 
finally subjugating O'Neale ; but it was not till 
the succession of James, to whom he made 
personal submission, and was received with 
civility at court. 

Note 39. 

But chief arose his victor pride, 

When thai brave Marshal fought and died. 
P. 204. 

The chief victory which Tyrone obtained 
over the English was in a battle fought near 
Blackwater, while he besieged a fort garrisoned 
by the English, which commanded the passes 
into his country. 

Tyrone is said to have entertained a per- 
sonal animosity against the knight-marshal, Sir 
Henry Bagnal, whom he accused of detaining 
the letters which he sent to Queen Elizabeth, 



ROKEBY. 



607 



explanatory of his conduct, and offering terms 
of submission. .The river, called by the Eng- 
lish, Blackwater, is termed in Irish, Avon-Duff, 
which has the same signification. Both names 
are mentioned by Spenser in his " Marriage of 
the Thames and the Medway." But I under- 
stand that his verses relate not to the Black- 
water of Ulster, but to a river of the same name 
in the south of Ireland : — 

"Swift Avon-Duff, which of the Englishmen 
Is called Blackwater." 

Note 40. 
Tlte Tanist he to great O'Neale.— V. 204. 

" Eudox. What is that which you call Tanist 
and Tanistry ? These be names and terms never 
heard of nor known to us. 

" Iren. It is a custom amongst all the Irish, 
that presently after the death of one of their 
chiefe lords or captaines, they doe presently 
assemble themselves to a place generally ap- 
pointed and knowne unto them, to choose 
another in his stead, where they do nominate 
and elect, for the most part not the eldest sonne, 
nor any of the children of the lord deceased, 
but the next to him in blood, that is, the eldest 
and worthiest, as commonly the next brother 
unto him, if he have any, or the next cousin, or 
so forth, as any is elder in that kindred or sept ; 
and then next to them doe they choose the next 
of the blood to be Tanist, who shall next suc- 
ceed him in the said captainry, if he live there- 
unto. 

"Eudox. Do they not use any ceremony in 
this election, for all barbarous nations are com- 
monly great observers of ceremonies and super- 
stitious rites? 

"Iren. They use to place him that shall be 
their captaine upon a stone, always reserved to 
that purpose, and placed commonly upon a hill. 
In some of which I have seen formed and en- 
graven a foot, which they say was the measure 
of their first captaine's foot ; whereon hee stand- 
ing, receives an oath to preserve all the ancient 
former customes of the countrey inviolable, and 
to deliver up the succession peaceably to his 
Tanist, and then hath a wand delivered unto 
him by some whose proper office that is ; after 
which, descending from the stone, he turneth 
himself round, thrice forwards and thrice back- 
wards. 

"Eudox. But how is the Tanist chosen? 

"Iren. They say he setteth but one foot 
upon the stone, and receiveth the like oath that 
the captaine did." — Spenser's View of the 
State of Ireland, apud Works, Lond. 1805, 
8vo, vol. viii. p. 306. 

The Tanist, therefore, of O'Neale, was the 
heir-apparent of his power. This kind of suc- 
cession appears also to have regulated, in very 
remote times, the succession to the crown of 
Scotland. It would have been imprudent, if 
not impossible, to have asserted a minor's right 
of succession in those stormy days, when the 



principles of policy were summed up in my 

friend Mr. Wordsworth's lift 

" the good old rule 

Sufficeth them ; the simple plan, 
That they should take who have the power, 
And they should keep who can." 

Note 41. 

With wild majestic port and tone, 

Like envoy of some barbarous throne. — P. 20 (. 

The Irish chiefs, in their intercourse with the 
English, and with each other, were wont to 
assume the language and style of independent 
royalty. 

Note 42. 

H is foster-father was his guide. — P. 205. 

There was no tie more sacred among the 
Irish than that which connected the foster- 
father, as well as the nurse herself, with the 
child they brought up. 

Note 43. 

Great Nial of the Pledges Nine. — P. 206. 

Neal Naighvallach, or Of the Nine Hostages, 
is said to have been Monarch of all Ireland, 
during the end of the fourth or beginning of the 
fifth century. He exercised a predatory war- 
fare on the coast of England and of Bretagne, 
or Armorica ; and from the latter country 
brought off the celebrated Saint Patrick, a 
youth of sixteen, among other captives, whom 
he transported to Ireland. Neal derived his 
epithet from nine nations, or tribes, whom he 
held under his subjection, and from whom he 
took hostages. 

Note 44. 

Shane-Dymas wild. — P. 206. 

This Shane-Dymas, or John the Wanton, 
held the title and power of O'Neale in the 
earlier part of Elizabeth's reign, against whom 
he rebelled repeatedly. 

" This chieftain is handed down to us as the 
most proud and profligate man on earth. He 
was immoderately addicted to women and wine. 
He is said to have had 200 tuns of wine at once in 
his cellar at Dandram, but usquebaugh was his 
favourite liquor. He spared neither age nor 
condition of the fair sex. Altho' so illiterate 
that he could not write, he was not destitute of 
address, his understanding was strong, and his 
courage daring. He had 600 men for his guard : 
4000 foot, 1000 horse for the field. He claimed 
superiority over all the lords of Ulster, and 
called himself king thereof."— Camuex. 

When reduced to extremity by the English, 
and forsaken by his allies, this Shane-Dymas 
fled to Clandeboy, then occupied by a colony 
of Scottish Highlanders of the family of Mac- 
Donell. He was at first courteously received ; 
but by degrees they began to quarrel about the 
slaughter of some of their friends whom Shane- 



6oS 



APPENDIX. 



Dymas had put to death, and advancing from 
words to deeds, fell upon him with their broad- 
swords, and cut him to pieces. After his death 
a law was made that none should presume to 
take the name and title of O'Neale. 

Note 45. 

Gerald hie. — P. 206. 

The O'Neales were closely allied with this 
powerful and warlike family ; for Henry Owen 
O'Neale married the daughter of Thomas Earl 
of Kildare, and their son Con-More married 
his cousin-german, a daughter of Gerald Earl of 
Kildare. This Con-More cursed any of his 
posterity who should learn the English language, 
sow corn, or build houses, so as to invite the 
English to settle in their country. Others 
ascribe this anathema to his son Con-Bacco. 
Fearflatha O'Gnive, bard to the O'Neales of 
Clannaboy, complains in the same spirit of the 
towers and ramparts with which the strangers 
had disfigured the fair sporting fields of Erin. 
— See Walker's Irish Bards, p. 140. 

Note 46. 

his page, the next degree 

In that old time to chivalry. — P. 206. 

Originally, the order of chivalry embraced 
three ranks : — 1. The Page ; 2. The Squire ; 
3. The Knight ; — a gradation which seems to 
have been imitated in the mystery of free- 
masonry. But, before the reign of Charles I., 
the custom of serving as a squire had fallen into 
disuse, though the order of the page was still, 
to a certain degree, in observance. This state 
of servitude was so far from inferring anything 
degrading, that it was considered as the regular 
school for acquiring every quality necessary for 
future distinction. 

Note 47. 
Seenid half abandon' d to decay. — P. 211. 

The ancient castle of Rokeby stood exactly 
upon the site of the present mansion, by which 
a part of its walls is enclosed. It is sur- 
rounded by a profusion of fine wood, and the 
park in which it stands is adorned by the 
junction of the Greta and of the Tees. The 
title of Baron Rokeby of Armagh was, in 1777, 
conferred on the Right Reverend Richard 
Rcbinson, Primate of Ireland, descended of 
the Robinsons, formerly of Rokeby, in York- 
shire. 

Note 48. 
The Felon Sow. — P. 212. 

The ancient minstrels had a comic as well as 
a serious strain of romance ; and although the 
examples of the latter are by far the most 
numerous, they are, perhaps, the less valuable. 
The comic romance was a sort of parody upon 
the usual subjects of minstrel poetry. If the 
latter described deeds of heroic achievement, 



and the events of the battle, the tourney, and 
the chase, the former, as in the Tournament 
of Tottenham, introduced a set of clowns de- 
bating in the field, with all the assumed cir- 
cumstances of chivalry. One of the very best of 
these mock romances, and which has no small 
portion of comic humour, is the Hunting of 
the Felon Sow of Rokeby by the Friars of 
Richmond. 

Note 49. 

The Filca of O'Neale was he. — P. 213. - 

The Filea, or Ollamh Re Dan, was the proper 
bard, or, as the name literally implies, poet. 
Each chieftain of distinction had one or more in 
his service, whose office was usually hereditary. 
The late ingenious Mr. Cooper Walker, has as- 
sembled a curious collection of particulars con- 
cerning this order of men, in his Historical 
Memoirs of the Irish Bards. There were 
itinerant bards of less elevated rank, but all 
were held in the highest veneration.. 

Note 50. 

Ah, Clandeboyl thy friendly floor 
S lieve-Donard's oak shall light no more. — ■ 
P. 213. 
Clandeboy is a district of Ulster, formerly 
possessed by the sept of the O'Neales, and 
Slieve-Donard a romantic mountain in the same 
province. The clan was ruined after Tyrone's 
great rebellion, and their places of abode laid 
desolate. The ancient Irish, wild and unculti- 
vated in other respects, did not yield even to 
their descendants in practising the most free 
and extended hospitality. 

Note 51. 
On Marwood Chase and Toller Hill.— -P. 213. 

Marwood Chase is the old Park extending 
along the Durham side of the Tees, attached to 
Barnard Castle. Toller Hill is an eminence on 
the Yorkshire side of the river, commanding a 
full view of the ruins. 

Note 52. 

The ancient English minstrel's dress. — 

P. 214. 

Among the entertainments presented to Eliza- 
beth at Kenilworth Castle, was the introduction 
of a person designed to represent a travelling 
minstrel, who entertained her with a solemn 
story out of the Acts of King Arthur. Of this 
person's dress and appearance Mr. Lanehamhas 
given us a very accurate account, transferred 
by Bishop Percy to the preliminary Dissertation 
on Minstrels, prefixed to The Reliques of An- 
cient Poetry, vol. i. 

Note 53. 
Littlecote Hall.—V. 218. 
This Ballad is founded on a fact :— the hor- 
rible murder of an infant by Wild Dayrell, as 



he was called. He gave the house and lands 
as a bribe to the judge (Popham) in order to 
save his life. A few months after Dayrell broke 
his neck by a fall from his horse. — Editok. 

Note 54. 

As thick a smoke these hearths have ghat 
At Hallow-tide, or Christmas-even. — 

P. 219. 
Such an exhortation was, in similar circum- 
stances, actually given to his followers by a 
Welsh chieftain. 

Note 55. 
O'er Hc.vliani's altar hung my glove. — P. 226. 
' This custom among the Redesdale and Tyne- 
dale Borderers is mentioned in the interesting 
Life of Barnard Gilpin. 

" It happened that a quarrel of this kind was 
on foot when Mr. Gilpin was at Rothbury, in 
those parts. Dining the two or three first days 
of his preaching, the contending parties ob- 
served some decorum, and never appeared at 
church together. At length, however, they met. 
One party had been early at church, and just as 
Mr. Gilpin began his sermon, the other entered. 
They stood not long silent. Inflamed at the 
sight of each other, they began to clash their 
weapons, for they were all armed with javelins 
and swords, and mutually approached. Awed, 
however, by the sacredness of the place, the 
tumult in some degree ceased. Mr. Gilpin pro- 
ceeded ; when again the combatants began to 
brandish their weapons, and draw towards each 
other. As a fray seemed near, Mr. Gilpin step- 
ped from the pulpit, went between them, and 
addressed the leaders, put an end to the quarrel, 
for the present, but could not effect an entire re- 
conciliation. They promised him, however, 
that till the sermon was over they would make 



no more disturbance. He then went again into 
the pulpit, and spent the rest of the time in en- 
deavouring to make them 1 what 
they had done. His behaviour and di 
affected them so much, that, at his furti 
treaty, they promised to forbear all acts 1 
tility while he continued in the country. And 
so much respected was he among them, that 
whoever was in fear of his enemy used to 
where Mr. Gilpin was, esteeming his presence 
the best protection. 

" One Sunday morning, coming to a church ir. 
those parts, before the people were assembled, 
he observed a glove hanging up, and was in- 
formed by £he sexton, that it was meant as a 
challenge to any one who should take it down. 
Mr. Gilpin ordered the sexton to reach it to him ; 
but upon his utterly refusing to touch it, he 
took it down himself, and put it into his breast. 
When the people were assembled, he went into 
the pulpit, and, before he concluded his sermon, 
took occasion to rebuke them severely for these 
inhuman challenges. 'I hear,' saith he, 'that 
one among you hath hanged up a glove, c\cn 
in this sacred place, threatening to fight any 
one who taketh it down : see, I have taken it 
down ; ' and, pulling out the glove, he held it 
up to the congregation, and then showed them 
how unsuitable such savage practices were to 
the profession of Christianity, using such per- 
suasives to mutual love as he thought would 
most affect them." — Life 0/ Barnard Gilpin. 
Lond. 1753, 8vo, p. 177. 

Note 56. 
A horseman annd, at headlong speed. — 229. 

This, and what follows, is taken from a real 
achievement of Major Robert Philipson, called 
from his desperate and adventurous courage, 
Robin the Devil. 



THE BRIDAL OF TRIERMAIN. 



Note i. 

The Baron ofTriermain. — P. 233. 

Triermain was a fief of the Barony of Gils- 
land in Cumberland ; it was possessed by a 
Saxon family at the time of the Conquest, but, 
"after the death of Gilmore, Lord of Tryer- 
maine and Torcrossock, Hubert Vaux gave 
Tryermaine and Torcrossock to his second son, 
Ranulph Vaux; which Ranulph afterwards 
became heir to his elder brother Robert, the 



founder of Lanercost, who died without issue. 
Ranulph, being Lord of all Gilsland, gave Gil- 
more's lands to his younger son, named Roland, 
and let the Barony descend to his eldest son 
Robert, son of Ranulph. Ronald had issue 
Alexander, and he Ranulph, after whom suc- 
ceeded Robert, and they were named Rolands 
successively, that were lords thereof, until the 
reign of Edward the Fourth. That house gave 
for arms, Vert, a bend dexter, chequy, or and 
gules. " — B urns's A ntiquities of Westmoreland 
and Cumberland, vol. ii. p. 482. 

22 



6i. 



APPENDIX. 



Note 2. 
He foss 1 d red Penrith's Table Round. — P. 234. 
A circular intrenchment, about half a mile 
from Penrith, is thus popularly termed. The 
circle within the ditch is about one hundred and 
sixty paces in circumference, with openings, or 
approaches, directly opposite to each other. As 
this ditch is on the inner side, it could not be 
intended for the purpose of defence, and it has 
reasonably been conjectured, that the enclosure 
was designed for the solemn exercise of feats of 
chivalry, and the embankment around for the 
convenience of the spectators. 

Note 3. 
Mayburgli 's mound. — P. 234. • 
Higher up the river Eamont than Arthur's 
Round Table, is a prodigious enclosure of great 
antiquity, formed by a collection of stones upon 
the top of a gently sloping hill, called May- 
burgh. In the plain which it encloses there 
stands erect an unhewn stone of twelve feet in 
height. Two similar masses are said to have 
been destroyed during the memory of man. The 
whole appears to be a monument of Druidical 
times. 

Note 4. 
The sable tar?i. — P. 235. 

The small lake called Scales-tarn lies so 
deeply embosomed in the recesses of the huge 
mountain called Saddleback, more poetically 
Glaramara, is of such great depth, and so com- 
pletely hidden from the sun, that it is said its 
beams never reach it, and that the reflection of 
the stars may be seen at mid-day. 

Note 5. 

The terrors of TintadgeVs spear. — P. 237. 

Tintadgel Castle, in Cornwall, is reported to 
have been the birth-place of King Arthur. 

Note 6. 
Scattering a shower of fiery dew. — P. 239. 

The author has an indistinct recollection of 
an adventure, somewhat similar to that which 
is here ascribed to King Arthur, having be- 
fallen one of the ancient Kings of Denmark. 
The horn in which the burning liquor was pre- 
sented to that Monarch, is said still to be pre- 
served in the RoyaL Museum at Copenhagen. 

Note 7. 
The Monarch, breathless and amazed, 
Back on the fatal castle gazed — 
Nor tower nor donjon could he spy, 
Darkening agai?ist the morning sky. — 

P- '39- 
— " We now gained a view of the Vale of St. 
John's, a very narrow dell, hemmed in by 
mountains, through which a small brook makes 
many meanderings, washing little enclosures of 
grass-ground, which stretch up the rising of the 



hills. In the widest part of the dale you are 
struck with the appearance of an ancient ruined 
castle, which seems to stand upon the summit 
of a little mount, the mountains around forming 
an amphitheatre. The massive bulwark shows 
a front of various towers, and makes an awful, 
rude, and Gothic appearance, with its lofty tur- 
rats and rugged battlements ; we traced the 
galleries, the bending arches, the buttresses. 
The greatest antiquity stands characterized in 
its architecture; the inhabitants near it assert 
it is an antediluvian structure. 

"The traveller's curiosity is roused, and he 
prepares to make a nearer approach, when that 
curiosity is put upon the rack, by his being 
assured, that, if he advances, certain genii who 
govern the place, by virtue of their super- 
natural art and necromancy, will strip it of all 
its beauties, and by enchantment, transform the 
magic walls. The vale seems adapted for the 
habitation of such beings ; its gloomy recesses 
and retirements look like the haunts of evil 
spirits. There was no delusion in the report ; 
we were soon convinced of its truth ; for this 
piece of antiquity, so venerable and noble in its 
aspect, as we drew near, changed its figure, and 
proved no other than a shaken massive pile of 
rocks, which stand in the midst of this little 
vale, disunited from the adjoining mountains, 
and have so much the real form and resemblance 
of a castle, that they bear the name of the 
Castle Rocks of St. John." — Hutchinson's 
Excursion to the Lakes, p. 121. 

Note 8. 

Twelve bloody fields, with glory fought. — 

P. 240. 

Arthur is said to have defeated the Saxons 

in twelve pitched battles, and to have achieved 

the other feats alluded to in the text. 

Note 9. 

The flower of chivalry. 
There Galaad sat with manly grace, 
Yet maiden meekness in his face ; 
There Morolt of the iron mace, 

And love-lorn Tristrem tlte7'e. — 

P. 240. 
The characters named in the stanza are all of 
them more or less distinguished in the romances 
which treat of King Arthur and his Round 
Table, and their names are strung together, ac- 
cording to the established custom of minstrels 
upon such occasions, for example, in the ballad 
of the Marriage of Sir Gawaine :— 

" Sir Lancelot, Sir Stephen bolde, 
The j- rode with him that daye, 
And foremost of the companye, 
There rode the stewarde Kaye. 

" Soe did Sir Banier, and Sir Bore, 
And eke Sir Garratte keen, 
Sir Tristrem, too, that gentle knight, 
To the forest fresh and greene." 



Note io. 

Lancelot, that evermore 

Look 'd stol 'n-wise on the Queen. — P. 240. 

Upon this delicate subject hear Richard Ro- 
binson, citizen of London, in his Assertion of 
King Arthur : — ' ' But as it is a thing sufficiently 
apparent that she (Guenever, wife of King 
Arthur) was beautiful, so it is a thing doubted 
whether she was chaste, yea or no. Truly, so 
far as I can with honestie, I would spare the 
impayred honour of noble women. But yet the 
truth of the historie pluckes me by the care, 
and willeth not onely, but commandeth me to 
declare what the ancients have deemed of her. 
To wrestle or contend with so great authoritie 
were indeed unto me a controversie, and that 
greate." — Assertion of King Arthure. Im- 
printed by John Wolfe, London, 1582. 

Note it. 
There were two who loved their neighbour's 

-P. 241. 

" In our forefathers' tyme, when Papistrie, 
as a standyng poole, covered and overflowed all 
England, fewe books were read in our tongue, 
savying certaine bookes of chevalrie, as they 
said, for pastime and pleasure ; which, as some 
say, were made in the monasteries, by idle 
monks or wanton chanons. As one, for ex- 
ample, La Morte d' Arthure ; the whole plea- 
sure of which book standeth in two special 
poyntes, in open manslaughter and bold baw- 
drye; in which booke they be counted the 



wives, 
And one who loved his own.- 



noblest knightes that do kill most men without 
any quarrell, and commit foulest adultc 
subtlest shiftcs; as Sir Launcelot, with tl 
of King Arthur, his master; Sir Tristram, with 
the wife of King Markc, his uncle ; Sir I 
rocke, with the wife of King Lote, that u 
own aunt. This is good stuff foi 
laugh at ; or honest men to take pleasure at : 
yet I know when God's Bible was banished the 
Court, and La Morte d'Arthtirc received into 
the Prince's chamber." — Ascham's School- 
master. 

Note 12. 
Who won the cup of gold. — P. 241. 

Sec the comic tale of the Boy and the Mantle, 
in the third volume of Percy's Reliques of 
Ancient Poetry, from the Breton or Norman 
original of which Ariosto is supposed to have 
taken his Tale of the Enchanted Cap. 

Note 13. 
Whose logic is from Single-speech. — P. 244. 
See "Parliamentary Logic, &c," by the 
Hon. W. G. Hamilton (1808', commonly called 
" Single-Speech Hamilton." 

Note to the Poem. 
Scott composed this poem with the intention 
that the public should attribute it to his friend 
Mr. Erskine (Lord Kinedder). The joke suc- 
ceeded ; but on the third edition being pub- 
lished, Lord Kinedder avowed the true author, 
the deception having gone further than either 
he or Scott intended. We mention this fact in 
order to explain the preface. — Ed. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



Note i. 

Thy rugged halls, Arloruish! ruug.—V. 258. 

The ruins of the Castle of Artornish are situ- 
ated upon a promontory, on the Morven, or 
mainland side of the Sound of Mull, a name 
given to the deep arm of the sea, which divides 
that island from the continent. The situation 
is wild and romantic in the highest degree, 
having on the one hand a high and precipitous 
chain of rocks overhanging the sea, and on the 
other the narrow entrance to the beautiful salt- 
water lake, called Loch Alline, which is in many 
places finely fringed with copsewood. The 
ruins of Artornish are not now very consider- 
able, and consist chiefly of the remains of an 



old keep, or tower, with fragments of outward 
defences. But, in former days, it was a place 
of great consequence, being one of the principal 
strongholds, which the Lords of the Isles, 
during the period of their stormy independence, 
possessed upon the mainland of Argyleshire. It 
is almost opposite to the Bay of Aros, in the 
Island of Mull, where there was another castle, 
the occasional residence of the Lords of the 
Isles. 

Note 2. 

Rude Heiskar"s seal through surges dark, 
Will long pjtrsue the minstrel's lark. — 

P. 258. 

The seal displays a taste for music, which 

could scarcely be expected from his habits and 

local predilections. They will long follow a boat 



6ii 



APPENDIX. 



in which any musical instrument is played, and 
even a tune simply whistled has attractions for 
them. The Dean of the Isles says of Heiskar, 
a small uninhabited rock, about twelve (Scot- 
tish) miles from the Isle of Uist, that an infinite 
slaughter of seals takes place there. 

Note 3. 

a turret's airy head, 

Slender and steep, and battled round, 
O'erlook'd, dark Mull! thy mighty Sound. — 
P. 259. 
The Sound of Mull, which divides that island 
from the continent of Scotland, is one of the 
most striking scenes which the Hebrides afford 
to the traveller. Sailing from Oban to Aros, 
or Tobermory, through a narrow channel, yet 
deep enough to bear vessels of the largest bur- 
den, he has on his left the bold and mountainous 
shores of Mull; on the right those of that dis- 
trict of Argyleshire, called Morven, or Morvern, 
successively indented by deep salt-water lochs, 
running up many miles inland. To the south- 
eastward arise a prodigious range of mountains, 
among which Cruachan-Ben is pre-eminent. 
And to the north-east is the no less huge and 
picturesque range of the Ardnamurchan hills. 
Many ruinous castles, situated generally upon 
cliffs overhanging the ocean, add interest to the 
scene. 

Note 4. 
The Jieir oj 'mighty Somerled.-^. 259. ! 
Somerled was thane of Argyle and Lord of 
the Isles, about the middle of the twelfth cen- 
tury. He seems to have exercised his authority 
in both capacities, independent of the crown of 
Scotland, against which he often stood in hos- 
tility. He made various incursions upon the 
western lowlands during the reign of Malcolm 
IV., and seems to have made peace with him 
upon the terms of an independent prince, about 
the year 1157. In 1164, he resumed the war 
against Malcolm, and invaded Scotland with a 
large, but probably a tumultuary army, col- 
lected in the isles, in the mainland of Argyle- 
shire, and in the neighbouring provinces of 
Ireland. He was defeated and slain in an en- 
gagement with a very inferior force, near Ren- 
frew. 

Note 5. 
Lord of the Isles. — P. 259. 

The representative of this independent prin- 
cipality, for such it seems to have been, though 
acknowledging occasionally the pre-eminence 
of the Scottish crown, was, at the period of the 
poem, Angus, called Angus Og; but the name 
has been, euphonice gratia, exchanged for that 
of Ronald, which frequently occurs in the 
genealogy. Angus was a protector of Robert 
Bruce, whom he received in his Castle of Dun- 
naverty, during the time of his greatest distress. 



Note 6. 

TJic House of Lorn. — P. 260. 

The House of Lorn, as we observed in a 
former note, was, like the Lord of the Isles, 
descended from a son of Somerled, slain at Ren- 
frew, in 1 164. This son obtained the succession 
of his mainland territories, comprehending the 
greater part of the three districts of Lorn, in 
Argyleshire, and of course might rather be con- 
sidered as petty princes than feudal barons. 
They assumed the patronymic appellation of 
MacDougal, by which they arc distinguished in 
the history of the Middle Ages. 

Note 7. 

Awaked before the rushing prow, 
The mimic fires of ocean glow, 
Those lightnings of the wave. — 

P. 262. 

The phenomenon called by sailors Sea-fire, 
is one of the most beautiful and interesting 
which is witnessed in the Hebrides. At times 
the ocean appears entirely illuminated around 
the vessel, and a long train of lambent corus- 
cations are perpetually bursting upon the sides 
of the vessel, or pursuing her wake through the 
darkness. 

Note 8. 

That keen knight, De Argentine.— -P. 264. 

Sir Egidius, or Giles de Argentine, was one 
of the most accomplished knights of the period. 
He had served in the wars of Henry of Luxem- 
burg with such high reputation, that he was, in 
popular estimation, the third worthy of the age. 
Those to whom fame assigned precedence over 
him were, Henry of Luxemburg himself, and 
Robert Bruce. Argentine had warred in Pales- 
tine, encountered thrice with the Saracens, and 
had slain two antagonists in each engagement: 
— an easy matter, he said, for one Christian 
knight to slay two Pagan dogs. 

Note 9. 

" Fill me tlie mighty cup ! " he said, 
" Erst ownd by royal Somerled. " — 

P. 264. 

A Hebridean drinking cup, of the most 
ancient and curious workmanship, has been 
long preserved in the castle of Dunvegan, in 
Skye, the romantic seat of Mac-Leod of Mac- 
Leod, the chief of that ancient and powerful 
clan. The horn of Rorie More, preserved in 
the same family, and recorded by Dr. Johnson, 
is not to be compared with this piece of anti- 
quity, which is one of the greatest curiosities in 
Scotland. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



613 



Note 10. 

the rebellions Scottish crew, 

Who to Rath-Erin s shelter drew. 
With Carrick's outlawed Chief." — 

P. 265. 
It must be remembered by all who have read 
the Scottish history, that after he had slain 
Comyn at Dumfries, and asserted his right to 
the Scottish crown, Robert Bruce was reduced 
to the greatest extremity by the English and 
their adherents. He was crowned at Scone by 
the general consent of the Scottish barons, but 
his authority endured but a short time. Ac- 
cording to the phrase said to have been used by 
his wife, he was for that year " a summer king, 
but not a winter one." 

Note it. 

The Broach 0/ Lorn.— P. 2S6. 

It has been generally mentioned in the pre- 
ceding notes, that Robert Bruce, after his de- 
feat at Methven, being hard pressed by the 
English, endeavoured, with the dispirited rem- 
nant of his followers, to escape from Breadal- 
bane and the mountains of Perthshire into the 
Argyleshire Highlands. But he was encountered 
and repulsed, after a very severe engagement, 
by the Lord of Lorn. Bruce's personal strength 
and courage were never displayed to greater 
advantage than in this conflict. There is a tra- 
dition in the family of the Mac-Dougals of 
Lorn, that their chieftain engaged in personal 
battle with Bruce himself, while the latter was 
employed in protecting the retreat of his men ; 
that Mac-Dougal was struck down by the king, 
whose strength of body was equal to his vigour 
of mind, and would have been slain on the spot, 
had not two of Lorn's vassals, a father and son, 
whom tradition terms Mac-Keoch, rescued 
him, by seizing the mantle of the monarch, and 
dragging him from above his adversary. Bruce 
rid himself of these foes by two blows of his re- 
doubted battle-axe, but was so closely pressed 
by the other followers of Lorn, that he was 
forced to abandon the mantle, and broach 
which fastened it, clasped in the dying grasp 
of the Mac-Keochs. A studded broach, said 
to have been that which King Robert lost upon 
this occasion, was long preserved in the family 
of Mac-Dougal, and was lost in a Are which 
consumed their temporary residence. 

Note 12. 

When Comyn fell beneath the knife 
Of that fell homicide the Bmce. — P. 263. 
Vain KirkpatricK s bloody dirk, 
Makitig sure of murder's work. — P. 266. 

Every reader must recollect that the proxi- 
mate cause of Bruce's asserting his right to the 
crown of Scotland, was the death of John, called 
the Red Comyn. The causes of this act of vio- 
lence, equally extraordinary from the high rank 



both of the perpetrator and sufferer, and from 
the place where the slaughter was committed, 
are variously related by the Scottish and I 
lish historians, and cannot now be ascertained. 
The fact that they met at the high altar of the 
Minorites, or Greyfriars' Church in Dumfries, 
that their difference broke out into high and 
insulting language, and that Bruce drew his 
dagger and stabbed Comyn, is certain. Rush- 
ing to the door of the church, Bruce met two 
powerful barons, Kirkpalrick of Closeburn, and 
and James de Lindsay, who eagerly asked him 
what tidings? " Bad tidings," answered Bruce; 
"I doubt I have slain Comyn."— " Doubtest 
thou?" said Kirkpatrick ; "I make sicker," 
(i. e. sure.) With these words, he and Lind- 
say rushed into the church, and despatched the 
wounded Coniyn. The Kirkpatricks of Close- 
burn assumed, in memory of this deed, a hand 
holding a dagger, with the memorable words, 
"I make sicker." 

Note 13. 

Barendmvn fled fast away, 

Fled tlie fiery De la Haye.—Y. 266. 

These knights are enumerated by Barbour 
among the small number of Bruce's adherents, 
who remained in arms with him after the battle 
of Methven. 

Note 14. 

Wait not enough to Ronald's bower 
I brought t/tee, like a paramour. — P. 268. 
It was anciently customary in the Highlands 
to bring the bride to the house of the husband. 
Nay, in some cases the complaisance was 
stretched so far, that she remained there upon 
trial for a twelvemonth ; and the bridegroom, 
even after this period of cohabitation, retained 
an option of refusing to fulfil his engagement. 
It is said that a desperate feud ensued between 
the clans of Mac-Donald of Sleate and Mac- 
Leod, owing to the former chief having availed 
himself of this licence to send back to Dunve- 
gan a sister or daughter of the latter. Mac- 
Leod, resenting the indignity, observed, that 
since there was no wedding bonfire, there 
should be one to solemnize the divorce. Ac- 
cordingly, he burned and laid waste the terri- 
tories of Mac-Donald, who retaliated, and a 
deadly feud, with all its accompaniments, took 
place in form. 

Note 15. 
Since matchless Wallace first had been 
In mock'ry crown'd with wreaths of green. 
P. 269. 
Stowgrves the following curious accountof the 
trial and execution of this celebrated patriot :— 
" William Wallace, who had oft-times set Scot- 
land in great trouble, was taken and brought to 
London, with great numbers of men and women 
wondering upon him. He was lodged in the 
house of William Delect, a citiien of London, 



6u 



APPENDIX. 



in Fenchurch-street. On the morrow, being 
the eve of St. Bartholomew, he was brought on 
horseback to Westminster. John Legrave and 
Geffrey, knights, the mayor, sheriffs, and 
aldermen of London, and many others, both on 
horseback and on foot, accompanying him ; and 
m the great hall at Westminster, he being 
placed on the south bench, crowned with laurel, 
for that he had said in times past that he ought 
to bear a crown in that hall, as it was commonly 
reported; and being appeached for a traitor by 
Sir Peter Malorie, the king's justice, he an- 
swered, that he was never traitor to the King 
of England; but for other things whereof he 
was accused, he confessed them ; and was after 
headed and quartered." — Stow, C/ir. p. 209. 
There is something singularly doubtful about 
the mode in which Wallace was taken. That 
he was betrayed to the English is indubitable ; 
and popular fame charges Sir John Menteith 
with the indelible infamy. "Accursed," says 
Arnold Blair, "be the day of nativity of John 
de Menteith, and may his name be struck out of 
the book of life." But John de Menteith was all 
along a zealous favourer of the English interest, 
and was governor of Dumbarton Castle by com- 
mission from Edward the First ; and therefore, 
as the accurate Lord Hailes has observed, could 
not be the friend and confidant of Wallace, as 
tradition states him to be. The truth seems to 
be, that Menteith, thoroughly engaged in the 
English interest, pursued Wallace closely, and 
made him prisoner through the treachery of an 
attendant, whom Peter Langtoft calls Jack 
Short. The infamy of seizing Wallace must 
rest, therefore, between a degenerate Scottish 
nobleman, the vassal of England, and a do- 
mestic, the obscure agent of his treachery; 
between Sir John Menteith, son of Walter, 
Earl of Menteith, and the traitor Jack Short. 

Note 16. 

Was not the life of A thole shed, 

To sootJie tlte tyrant's sicken' d bed. — 

P. 269. 
John de Strathbogie, Earl of Athole, had at- 
tempted to escape out of the kingdom, but a 
storm cast him upon the coast, when he was 
taken, sent to London, and executed, with cir- 
cumstances of great barbarity, being first half 
strangled, then let down from the gallows while 
yet alive, barbarously dismembered, and his 
body burnt. It may surprise the reader to 
learn, that this was a mitigated punishment ; 
for in respect that his mother was a grand- 
daughter of King John, by his natural son 
Richard, he was not drawn on a sledge to exe- 
cution, " that point was forgiven," and he made 
the passage on horseback. Matthew of West- 
minster tells us that King Edward, then ex- 
tremely ill, received great ease from the news 
that his relative was apprehended. " Quo 
audito, Rex Anglice, etsi gravissinio morbo 
tunc langueret, levins tamen tulit doloreni" 
To this singular expression the text alludes. 



Note 17. 

While I the blessed cross advance, 
And expiate this unhappy chance, 
■ In Palestine, with sword and lance. — 

P. 270. 
Bruce uniformly professed, and probably felt, 
compunction for having violated the sanctuary 
of the church by the slaughter of Comyn ; and 
finally, in his last hours, in testimony of his 
faith, penitence, and zeal, he requested James 
Lord Douglas to carry his heart to Jerusalem, 
to be there deposited in the Holy Sepulchre. 

Note 18. 

De Bruce ! I rose with purpose dread 
To speak my curse upon thy head. — 

P. 270. 
So soon as the notice of Comyn's slaughter 
reached Rome, Bruce and his adherents were 
excommunicated. It was published first by the 
Archbishop of York, and renewed at different 
times, particularly by Lambyrton, Bishop of St. 
Andrews, in 1308 ; but it does not appear to 
have answered the purpose which the English 
monarch expected. Indeed, for reasons which 
it may be difficult to trace, the thunders of 
Rome descended upon the Scottish mountains 
with less effect than in more fertile countries. 
Probably the comparative poverty of the bene- 
fices occasioned that fewer foreign clergy set- 
tled in Scotland ; and the interests of the native 
churchmen were linked with that of their 
country. Many of the Scottish prelates, Lam- 
byrton the primate particularly, declared for 
Bruce, while he was yet under the ban of the 
church, although he afterwards again changed 
sides. 

Note 19. 

A hunted wanderer on the wild, 
On foreign shores a man exiled.^ 

P. 270. 
This is not metaphorical. The echoes of 
Scotland did actually 

" ring 

With the bloodhounds that bay'd for her fugi- 
tive king." 
A very curious and romantic tale is told by 
Barbour upon this subject, which may be 
abridged as follows : — 

When Bruce had again got footing in Scot- 
land in the spring of 1306, he continued to be 
in a very weak and precarious condition, gain- 
ing, indeed, occasional advantages, but obliged 
to fly before his enemies whenever they as- 
sembled in force. Upon one occasion, while he 
was lying with a small party in the wilds of 
Cumnock, in Ayrshire, Aymer de Valence, Earl 
of Pembroke, with his inveterate foe John of 
Lorn, came against him suddenly with eight 
hundred Highlanders, besides a large body of 
men-at-arms. They brought with them a 
slough-dog, or bloodhound, which, some say, 



THE LORD OF THE /SZEi. 



615 



had been once a favourite with the Bruce him- 
self, and therefore was least likely to lose the 
trace. 

Bruce, whose force was under four hundred 
men, continued to make head against the 
cavalry*, till the men of Lorn had nearly cutoff 
bis retreat. Perceiving the danger of his situ- 
ation, he acted as the celebrated and i U-r : 
Mina is said to have done in similar circum- 
stances. He divided his force into three parts, 
appointed a place of rendezvous, and com- 
manded them to retreat by different routes. 
But when John of Lorn arrived at the spot 
where they divided, he caused the bouo 
put upon the trace, which immediately di 
him to the pursuit of that party which Bruce 
headed. This, therefore, Lorn pursued with his 
whole force, paying no attention to the others. 
The king again subdivided his small body into 
three parts, and with the same result, for the 
pursuers attached themselves exclusively to 
that which he led in person. He then caused 
his followers to disperse, and retained only his 
foster-brother in his company. The slough- 
dog followed the trace, and, neglecting the 
others, attached himself and his attendants to 
the pursuit of the king. Lorn became con- 
vinced that his enemy was nearly in his power, 
and detached five of his most active attendants 
to follow him, and interrupt his flight. They 
did so with all the agility of mountaineers. 
"What aid wilt thou make?" said Bruce to his 
single attendant, when he saw the five men gain 
ground on him. "The best I can," replied his 
foster-brother. "Then," said Bruce, "here I 
make my stand." The five pursuers came up 
fast. The king took three to himself, leaving 
the other two to his foster-brother. He slew 
the first who encountered him ; but observ- 
ing his foster-brother hard pressed, he sprung 
to his assistance, and despatched one of his 
assailants. Leaving him to deal with the sur- 
vivor, he returned upon the other two, both of 
whom he slew before his foster-brother had de- 
spatched his single antagonist. When this hard 
encounter was over, with a courtesy, which in 
the whole work marks Bruce's character, he 
thanked his foster-brother for his aid. "It 
likes you to say so," answered his follower ; 
"'but you yourself slew four of the five." — 
"' True," said the king, " but only because I had 
better opportunity than you. They were not 
apprehensive of me when they saw me en- 
counter three, so I had a moment's time to 
spring to thy aid, and to return equally unex- 
pectedly upon my own opponents." 

In the mean while Lom's party approached 
rapidly, and the king and his foster-brother 
betook themselves to a neighbouring wood. 
Here they sat down, for Bruce was exhausted 
by fatigue, until the cry of the slough-hound 
came so near, that his foster-brother entreated 
Bruce to provide for his safety by retreating 
further. " I have heard," answered the king, 
"that whosoever will wade a bow-shot length 
down a running-stream, shall make the slough- [ 



hound lose scent. — Let us try the experiment, 
for were yon devilish hound silcn 
care little for the 

Lorn in the mean while advanced, and f 
the bodies of his slai .r whom he 

made his moan, and threatened the most deadly 
ice. Then he followed the hound to the 
side of the brook down which the king 
1 great way. Here the hound . 
fault, and John of Lorn, after long attei 
in vain to recover Bruce's trace, relinquished 
the pursuit. 

" Others," says Barbour, "affirm, that upon 
this occasion the king's life was saved by an 
excellent archer who accompanied him, and 
who perceiving they would be finally taken by 
means of the blood-hound hid himself in a 
thicket, and shot him with an arrow. In which 
way," adds the metrical biographer, "this 
escape happened I am uncertain, but at that 
brook the king escaped from his pursuers." 

Note 20. 

"Alas! dear youth, the -unhappy time" 
Answer' d the Bruce, " must bear tlie crime, 
Si>: r than you, 

1 /" — he paused ; for Fai '. 

its conscious soul arose. — P. 272. 

I have followed the vulgar and inaccurate 
tradition, that Bruce fought against Wallace, 
and the array of Scotland, at the fatal battle of 
Falkirk. The story, which seems to have no 
better authority than that of Blind Harry, 
bears, that having made much slaughter during 
the engagement, he sat down to dine with the 
conquerors without washing the filthy witness 
from his hands. 

" Fasting he was, and had been in great need, 
Blooded were all his weapons and his weed ; \ 
Southeron lords scorn'd him in terms rude, 
And said. Behold yon Scot eats his own blood. \ 

"Then rued he sore, for reason bad be known, 
That blood and land alike should be his own ; 
Widi them he long was, ere he got away, 
But contrair Scots he fought not from that ] 
day." 
The account given by most of our historians, 
of the conversation between Bruce and Wallace 
over the Carron river, is equally apocryphal. 
There is full evidence that Bruce was not at 
that time on the English side, nor present at the 
battle of Falkirk; nay, that he acted as a 
guardian of Scotland, along with John Comyn, 
in the name of Baliol, and in opposition to the 
English. 

Note 21. 

These are Vie savage wilds that lie 
North of Strathnardill and Dunskye. — 

P- 273. 
The extraordinary piece of scenery which I 
have here-attempted to describe is, I think, un- 
paralleled in any part of Scotland, at least in 
any which I have happened to visit. It lies 



6j6 



APPENDIX. 



just upon the frontier of the Laird of Mac- 
Leod's country, which is thereabouts divided 
from the estate of Mr. Mac-Allister of Strath- 
Aird, called Strathnardill by the Dean of the 
Isles. 

Note 22. 
And mermaid's alabaster grot, 
Who bathes her limbs in sunless well, 
Deep in Strathaird's enchanted cell. — 

P. 276. 
Imagination can hardly conceive anything 
more beautiful than the extraordinary grotto 
discovered not many years since upon the 
estate of Alexander Mac-Allister, Esq., of 
Strathaird. It has since been much and de- 
servedly celebrated, and a full account of its 
beauties has been published by Dr. Mac-Leay 
of Oban. The general impression may perhaps 
be gathered from the following extract from a 
journal, which, written under the feelings of the 
moment, is likely to be more accurate than any 
attempt to recollect the impressions then re- 
ceived : — "The first entrance to this celebrated 
cave is rude and unpromising; but the light of 
the torches, with which we were provided , was 
soon reflected from the roof, floor, and walls, 
which seem as if they were sheeted with marble, 
partly smooth, partly rough with frost-work and 
rustic ornaments, and partly seeming to be 
wrought into statuary. The floor forms a steep 
and difficult ascent, and might be fancifully 
compared to a sheet of water, which, while it 
rushed whitening and foaming down a declivity, 
had been suddenly arrested and consolidated by 
the spell of an enchanter. Upon attaining the 
summit of this ascent, the cave opens into a 
splendid gallery, adorned with the most daz- 
zling crystallizations, and finally descends with 
rapidity to the brink of a pool of the most lim- 
pid water, about four or five yards broad. 
There opens beyond this pool a portal arch, 
formed by two columns of white spar, with 
beautiful chasing upon the sides, which promises 
a continuation of the cave. One of our sailors 
swam across, for there is no other mode of pass- 
ing, and informed us (as indeed we partly saw 
by, the light he carried) that the enchantment 
of Mac-Allister's cave terminates with this por- 
tal, a littl» beyond which there was only a rude 
cavern, speedily choked with stones and earth. 
But the pool, on the brink of which we stood, 
surrounded by the most fanciful mouldings, in 
a substance resembling white marble, and dis- 
tinguished by the depth and purity of its waters, 
might have been the bathing grotto of a naiad. 
The groups of combined figures projecting, or 
embossed, by which the pool is surrounded, are 
exquisitely elegant and fanciful. A statuary 
might catch beautiful hints from the singular 
and romantic disposition of those stalactites. 
There is scarce a form or group on which active 
fancy may not trace figures or grotesque orna- 
ments, which have been gradually moulded in 
this cavern by the dropping of the calcareous 
water hardening into petrifactions. Many of 



those fine groups have been injured by the sense- 
less rage of appropriation of recent (tourists ; 
and the grotto had lost, (I am informed,) through 
the smoke of torches, something of that vivia 
silver tint which was originally one of its chief 
distinctions. But enough of beauty remains to 
compensate for all that maybe lost." — Mr Mac- 
Allister of Strathaird has, with great propriety, 
built up the exterior entrance to this cave, in 
order that strangers may enter properly attended 
by a guide, to prevent any repetition of the 
wanton and selfish injury which this singular 
scene has already sustained. 

Note 23. 

Yet to no sense of selfish wrongs, 
Bear -witness with me, Heaven, belongs 
My joy o'er Edward's bier. — P. 278. 

The generosity which does justice to the 
character of an enemy, often marks Bruce's 
sentiments, as recorded by the faithful Barbour. 
He seldom mentions a fallen enemy without 
praising such good qualities as he might pos- 
sess. I shall only take one instance. Shortly 
after Bruce landed in Carrick, in 1306, Sir In- 
gram Bell, the English governor of Ayr, en- 
gaged a wealthy yeoman, who had hitherto 
been a follower of Bruce, to undertake the task 
of assassinating him. The king learned this 
treachery, as he is said to have done other 
secrets of the enemy, by means of a female with 
whom he had an intrigue. Shortly after he was 
possessed of this information, Bruce, resorting to 
a small thicket at a distance from his men, with 
only a single page to attend him, met the traitor, 
accompanied by two of his sons. They ap- 
proached him with their wonted familiarity, but 
Bruce, taking his page's bow and arrow, com- 
manded them to keep at a distance. As they 
still pressed forward with professions of zeal for 
his person and service, he, after a second warn- 
ing, shot the father with the arrow ; and being 
assaulted successively by the two sons, de- 
spatched first one, who was armed with an axe, 
then as the other charged him with a spear, 
avoided the thrust, struck the head from the 
spear, and cleft the skull of the assassin with a 
blow of his two-handed sword. 

Note 24. 

And Roniris mountains dark have sent 
Their hunters to the shore. — P. 280. 

Ronin (popularly called Rum, a name which 
a poet may be pardoned for avoiding if pos- 
sible) is a very rough and mountainous island, 
adjacent to those of Eigg and Cannay. There 
is almost no arable ground upon it, so that, ex- 
cept in the plenty of the deer, which of course 
are now nearly extirpated, it still deserves the 
description bestowed by the arch-dean of the 
Isles. " Ronin, sixteen myle north-west from 
the ile of Coll, lyes ane ile callit Ronin lie, of 
sixteen myle long, and six in bredthe in the 
narrowest, ane forest of heigh mountains, and 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



6i7 



abundance of little deir in it, quhilk deir will 
never be slane dounewith, but the principal 
saittis man be in the height of the hill, because 
the deir will be callit upwart ay be the tainchell 
or without tynchel they will pass upwart per- 
force. In this ile will be gotten about Britane 
als many wild nests upon the plane mure as 
men pleasis to gadder, and yet by resson the 
fowls has few to start them except deir. This 
ile lyes from the west to the cist in lenth, 
and pertains to M'Kenabrey of Colla. Many 
solan geese are in this ile."— Monro's De- 
scription of tlm Western Isles, p. 18. „ 

Note 25. 

On Scooreigg next a warning light 
Summon d her zvarriors to the fight 1 
A numerous race, ere stem Mac lead 
Cer their bleak shores in vengeance strode. — 
P. 280. 
These, and the following lines of the stanza, 
refer to a dreadful tale of feudal vengeance, of 
which unfortunately there are relics that still 
attest the truth. Scoor-Eigg is a high peak in 
the centre of the small Ish of Eigg, or Egg. It is 
well known to mineralogists, as affording many 
interesting specimens, and to others whom 
chance or curiosity may lead to the island, for 
the astonishing view of the mainland and 
neighbouring isles, which it commands. 

26th At/gust, 1S14. — At seven this morning 
we were in the Sound which divide's the Isle of 
Rum from that of Eigg. The latter, although 
hilly and rocky, and traversed by a remarkably 
high and barren ridge, called Scoor-Rigg, has, 
in point of soil, a much more promising ap- 
pearance. Southward of both lies the Isle of 
Muich, or Muck, a low and fertile island, and 
though the least, yet probably the most valu- 
able of the three. We manned the boat and 
rowed along the shore of Egg in quest of a 
cavern, which had been the memorable scene of 
a horrid feudal vengeance. We had rounded 
more than half the island, admiring the entrance 
of many a bold natural cave, which its rocks 
exhibited, without finding that which we 
sought, until we procured a guide. Nor, in- 
deed, was it surprising that it should have 
escaped the search of strangers, as there are 
no outward indications more than might dis- 
tinguish the entrance of a fox-earth. This 
noted cave has a very narrow opening, through 
which one can hardly creep on his knees and 
hands. It rises steep and lofty within, and runs 
into the bowels of the rock to the depth of 255 
measured feet ; the height at the entrance may 
be about three feet, but rises within to eighteen 
or twenty, and the breadth may vary in the 
same proportion. The rude and stony bottom 
of this cave is strewed with the bones of men, 
women, and children, the sad relics of the 
ancient inhabitants of the island, 200 in num- 
ber, who were slain on the following occasion : 
—The Mac-Donalds of the Isle of Egg, a 



people dependent on Clan-Ranald, had done 
some injury to the Laird ol 
tradition of the isle says, that it 
sonal attack on the chieftain, in which hi 
was broken. But that of the otht 
more probably, that the injury w 
two or three of the Mac-Leods, who, ! 
upon Eigg, and using some freedom with the 
young women, were seized l;y the isU 
bound hand and foot, and turned adrift 
boat, which the winds and waves safely con- 
ducted to Skyc. To avenge the offence given, 
MacLeod sailed with such a body of men as 
rendered resistance hopeless. The tti 
fearing his vengeance, concealed themselves in 
this cavern, and, after a strict search, the Mac- 
Leods went on board their galleys, after doing 
what mischief they could, concluding the in- 
habitants had left the isle, and betaken them- 
selves to the Long Island, or some of Clan- 
Ranald's other possessions. But next morning 
they espied from the vessels a man upon the 
island, and immediately landing again, they 
traced his retreat by the marks of his foot- 
steps, a light snow being unhappily on the 
ground. Mac-Leod then surrounded the 
cavern, summoned the subterranean garrison, 
and demanded that the individuals who had 
offended him should be delivered up to him. 
This was peremptorily refused. The chief- 
tain then caused his people to divert the course 
of a rill of water, which, falling over the en- 
trance of the cave, would have prevented his 
purposed vengeance. He then kindled at the 
entrance of the cavern a huge (ire, composed of 
turf and fern, and maintained it with unrelent- 
ing assiduity, until all within were destroyed 
by suffocation. The date of this dreadful deed 
must have been recent, if one may judge from 
the fresh appearance of those relics. I brought 
off, in spite of the prejudice of our sailors, a 
skull from among the numerous specimens of 
mortality which the cavern afforded. Before 
re-embarking we visited another cave, opening 
to the sea, but of a character entirely different, 
being a large open vault, as high as that of a 
cathedral, and running back a great way into 
the rock at the same height. The height and 
width of the opening gives ample light to the 
whole. Here, after 1745, when the Catholic 
priests were scarcely tolerated, the priest of 
Eigg used to perform the Roman Catholic 
service, most of the islanders being of that per- 
suasion. A huge ledge of rocks rising about 
half-way up one side of the vault, served for 
altar and pulpit; and the appearance of a 
priest and Highland congregation in such an 
extraordinary place of worship, might have en 
gaged the pencil of Salvator.' 

Note 26. 

Scenes sung by him who sings no more. — 

P. 281. 

The ballad entitled, " Macphail of Colon- 

say, and the Mermaid of Corrievrekin," [.see 



6iS 



APPENDIX. 



Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. p. 285,] was com- 
posed by John Leyden, from a tradition which 
he found while making a tour through the 
Hebrides about 1801, soon before his fatal de- 
parture for India, where, after having made 
further progress in Oriental literature than 
any man of letters who had embraced those 
studies, he died a martyr to his zeal for know- 
ledge, in the island of Java, immediately after 
the landing of our forces near Batavia, in 
August, 181 1. 

Note 27. 

Up Tarbafs western lake they bore, 

Then dragged tlieir bark the isthmus o'er. — 

P. 281. 

The peninsula of Cantire is joined to South 

Knapdale by a very narrow isthmus ; formed 

by the western and eastern Loch of Tarbat. 

These two saltwater lakes, or bays, encroach 

so far upon the land, and the extremities come 

so near to each other, that there is not above 

a mile of land to divide them. 

Note 28. 

1 he sun, ere yet Jie sunk behind 
Ben-Ghoil, " the Mountain of the Wind," 
Gave his gri?n peaks a greeting kind, 

And bade Loch Ranza smile. — P. 281. 

Loch Ranza is a beautiful bay, on the 
northern extremity of Arran, opening towards 
East Tarbat Loch. It is well described by 
Pennant: — "The approach was magnificent; 
a fine bay in front, about a mile deep, having 
a ruined castle near the lower end, on a low 
far-projecting neck of land, that forms another 
harbour, with a narrow passage ; but within 
has three fathom of water, even at the lowest 
ebb. Beyond is a little plain watered by a 
stream, and inhabited by the people of a small 
village. The whole is environed with a theatre 
of mountains ; and in the background the ser- 
rated crags of Grianan-Athol soar above." — 
Pennant's Tour to the Western Isles, pp. 
191-2. Ben-Ghaoil, " the mountain of the 
winds," is generally known by its English, and 
less poetical, name of Goatfield. 

Note 29. 

Each to Loch Rama's margin spring; 

Tfiat blast was winded by the King '. — 

P. 282. 

The passage in Barbour, describing the land- 
ing of Bruce, and his being recognized by 
Douglas and those of his followers who had 
preceded him, by the sound of his horn, is in 
the original singularly simple and affecting. — 
The king arrived in Arran with thirty-three 
small row-boats. He interrogated a female if 
there had arrived any warlike men of late in 
that country. "Surely, sir," she replied, "I 
can tell you of many who lately came hither, 
discomfited the English governor, and block- 



aded his castle of Brodick. They maintain 
themselves in a wood at no great distance." 
The king, truly conceiving that this must be 
Douglas and his followers, who had lately set 
forth to try their fortune in Arran, desired 
the woman to conduct him to the wood. She 
obeyed. 

" The king then blew his horn on high ; 
And girt his men that were him by, 
Hold them still, and all privy ; 
And syne again his horn blew he. 
James of Dowglas heard him blow, 
And at the last alone gan know, 
And said, ' Soothly yon is the king ; 
I know long while since his blowing.' 
The third time therewithall he blew, 
And then Sir Robert Boid it knew ; 
And said, ' Yon is the king, but dread, 
Go we forth till him, better speed.' 
Then went they till the king in hye, 
And him inclined courteously. 
And blithly welcomed them the king, 
And was joyful of their meeting, 
And kissed them ; and speared syne 
How they had fared in hunting ? 
And they him told all, but lesing : 
Syne laud they God of their meeting. " 
Syne with the king till his harbourye 
Went both joyfu' and jolly." 

Barbour's Bruce, Book v. pp. ii5> «<>. 

Note 30. 

his brother blamed, 

But shared the weakness, while ashamed, 
With haughty laugh Jus head lie tum'd, 
A nd dash'd away the tear lie scorn' d. — 

P. 283. 

The kind and yet fiery character of Edward 
Bruce is well painted by Barbour, in the ac- 
count of his behaviour after the battle of Ban- 
nockburn. Sir Walter Ross, one of the very 
few Scottish nobles who fell in that battle, was 
so dearly beloved by Edward, that he wished 
the victory had been lost, so Ross had livec. 

Note 31. 

Thou JiearcTst a wretched female plain 

In agony of travail-pain, 

A nd thou didst bid thy little band 

Upon tlie instant turn and stand, 

A?id dare the worst the foe might do, 

Rather tJian, like a /might untrue, 

Leave to pursuers merciless 

A wo/nan in her last distress. — P. 284. 

This incident, which illustrates so happily 
the chivalrous generosity of Bruce's character, 
is one of the many simple and natural traits 
recorded by Barbour. It occurred during the 
expedition which Bruce made to Ireland, to 
support the pretensions of his brother Edward 
to the throne of that kingdom. 



THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



619 



Note 32. 

O'er chasms he pass'd, where fractures wide 
Craved wary eye and ample stride. — P. 287. 

The interior of the island of Arran abounds 
with beautiful Highland scenery. The hills, 
being very rocky and precipitous, afford some 
cataracts of great height, though of inconsider- 
able breadth. There is one pass over the river 
Machrai, renowned for the dilemma of a poor 
woman, who, being tempted by the narrowness 
of the ravine to step across, succeeded in mak- 
ing the first movement, but took fright when it 
became necessary to move the other foot, and 
remained in a posture equally ludicrous and 
dangerous, until some chance passenger as- 
sisted her to extricate herself. It is said she 
remained there some hours. 

Note 33. 

Old Brodick's gothic towers were seen; 

From Hastings, late their English Lord, 

Douglas had won them by the sword. — 

P. 287. 

Brodick or Brathwick Castle, in the Isle of 
Arran, is an ancient fortress, near an open 
roadstead called Brodick-Bay, and not far dis- 
tant from a tolerable harbour, closed in by the 
Island of Lamlash. This important place had 
been assailed a short time before Bruce's ar- 
rival in the island. James Lord Douglas, who 
accompanied Bruce to his retreat in Rachrine, 
seems, in the spring of 1306, to have tired of 
his abode there, and set out accordingly, in the 
phrase of the times, to see what adventure God 
would send him. Sir Robert Boyd accompanied 
him; and his knowledge of the localities of 
Arran appears to have directed his course 
thither. They landed in the island privately, 
and appear to have laid an ambush for Sir John 
Hastings, the English governor of Brodwick, 
and surprised a considerable supply of arms 
and provisions, and nearly took the castle it- 
self. Indeed, that they actually did so, has 
been generally averred by historians, although 
it does not appear from the narrative of Bar- 
bour. On the contrary, it would seem that 
they took shelter within a fortification of the 
ancient inhabitants. . . . The castle is 
now much modernized, but has a dignified 
appearance, being surrounded by flourishing 
plantations. 

Note 34. 

Oft, too, with imaccustom'd ears, 

A language much unmeet he hears. — 

P. 287. 
Barbour, with great simplicity, gives an an- 
ecdote, from which it would seem that the vice 
of profane swearing, afterwards too general 
among the Scottish nation, was, at this time, 
confined to military men. As Douglas, after 
Bruce's return to Scotland, was roving about 
the mountainous country of Tweeddale, near 



the water of Line, he chanced t 
persons in a farm-house say, "the 
Concluding, from this hai ,. that 

the house contained warlike guests, he imme- 
diately assailed it, and had the 
to make prisoners Thomas Randolph, 
wards the famous Karl of Murray, and Alex- 
ander Stuart, Lord Bonkle. Both w< 
in the English interest, and had con 
that country with the purpose ofdrivii 
Douglas. They afterwards ranked among 
Bruce's most zealous adherents. 

Note 35. 

Now ask you whence that wondrous light, 
Whose fairy glow beguiled their sight I 
It ne'er was known, — P. 289. 

The following are the words of an ingenious 
correspondent, to whom I am obliged for much 
information respecting Turnberry and its neigh- 
bourhood. " The only tradition now remem- 
bered of the landing of Robert the Bruce in 
Carrick, relates to the fire seen by him from 
the Isle of Arran. It is still generally reported, 
and religiously believed by many, that this fire 
was really the work of supernatural power, 
unassisted by the hand of any mortal being ; 
and it is said, that, for several centuries, the 
flame rose yearly on the same hour of the same 
night of the year, on which the king first saw 
it from the turrets of Brodick Castle ; and 
some go so far as to say, that if the exact time 
were known, it would be still seen. That this 
superstitious notion is very ancient, is evident 
from the place where the fire is said to have 
appeared being called the Bogles' Brae, be- 
yond the remembrance of man. In support of 
this curious belief, it is said that the practice of 
burning heath for the improvement of land was 
then unknown ; that a spunkie (Jack o'lan- 
thorn) could not have been seen across the 
breadth of the Forth of Clyde, between Ayr- 
shire and Arran ; and that the courier of Bruce 
was his kinsman, and never suspected of 
treachery."— Letter from Mr. Joseph Train, of 
Newton Stewart. 

Note 36. 

The Bruce hath won his father's hall ! — 
P. 293. 
I have followed the flattering and pleasing 
tradition, 'that the Bruce, after his descent upon 
the coast of Ayrshire, actually gained posses- 
sion of his maternal castle. But the tradition 
is not accurate. The fact is, that he was only 
strong enough to alarm and drive in the out- 
posts of the English garrison, then commanded, 
not by Clifford, as assumed in the text, but by 
Percy. Neither was Clifford slain upon this 
occasion, though he had several skirmishes 
with Bruce. He fell afterwards in the battle 
of Bannockburn. Bruce, after alarming the 
castle of Turnberry, and surprising some part 
of the garrison, who were quartered without 



620 



APPENDIX. 



the walls of the fortress, retreated into the 
mountainous part of Carrick, and there made 
himself so strong, that the English were obliged 
to evacuate Turnherry, and at length the 
Castle of Ayr. Many of his benefactions and 
royal gifts attest his attachment to the here- 
ditary followers of his house, in this part of the 
country. 

Note 37. 

Wtien Bruce 's banner had victorious flow' d, 
O'er Lottdoun's moimtain, and in dry's vale. 

P. 294. 
The first important advantage gained by 
Bruce, after landing at Turnberry, was over 
Aymer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, the 
same by whom he had been defeated near 
Methven. They met, as has been said, by 
appointment, at Loudonhill, in the west of 
Scotland. Pembroke sustained a defeat ; and 
from that time Bruce was at the head of a 
considerable flying army. Yet he was subse- 
quently obliged to retreat into Aberdeenshire, 
and was there assailed by Comyn, Earl of 
Buchan, desirous to avenge the death of his 
relative, the Red Comyn, and supported by a 
body of English troops under Philip de Mow- 
bray. Bruce was ill at the time of a scro- 
fulous disorder, but took horse to meet his 
enemies, although obliged to be supported on 
either side. He was victorious, and it is said 
that the agitation of his spirits restored his 
health. 

Note 38. 
When English Hood oft deluged Douglas-dale. 

P. 294. 
The "good Lord James of Douglas," during 
these commotions, often took from the English 
his own castle of Douglas, but being unable to 
garrison it, contented himself with destroying 
the fortifications, and retiring into the moun- 
tains. As a reward to his patriotism, it is said 
to have been prophesied, that how often soever 
Douglas Castle should be destroyed, it should 
always again arise more magnificent from its 
ruins. Upon one of these occasions he used 
fearful cruelty, causing all the store of provi- 
sions, which the English had laid up in his 
castle, to be heaped together, bursting the 
wine and beer casks among the wheat and 
flour, slaughtering the cattle upon the same 
spot, and upon the top of the whole cutting 
the throats of the English prisoners. This 
pleasantry of the "good Lord James " is com- 
memorated under the name of the Douglas's 
Larder. 

Note 39. 

Andflery Edward routed stout St. John.— 
P. 294. 

"John de St. John, with 15,00c horsemen, 
had advanced to oppose the inroad of the 
Scots. By a forced march he endeavoured to 
surprise them, but intelligence of his motions 



was timeously received. The courage of Ed- 
ward Bruce, approaching to temerity, fre- 
quently enabled him to achieve what men of 
more judicious valour would never have at- 
tempted. He ordered the infantry, and the 
meaner sort of his army, to intrench them- 
selves in strong narrow ground. He himself, 
with fifty horsemen well harnessed, issued forth 
under cover of a thick mist, surprised the Eng- 
lish on their march, attacked and dispersed 
them." — Dalrymple's Annals of Edinburgh, 
quarto, Edinburgh, 1779, p. 25. 

Note 40. 

When Randolph's war-cry swell' d the south- 
ern gale. — P. 294. 

Thomas Randolph, Bruce's sister's son, a re- 
nowned Scottish chief, was in the early part of 
his life not more remarkable for consistency than 
Bruce himself. He espoused his uncle's party 
when Bruce first assumed the crown, and was 
made prisoner at the fatal battle of Methven, 
in which his relative's hopes appeared to be 
ruined. Randolph accordingly not only sub- 
mitted to the English, but took an active part 
against Bruce ; appeared in arms against him : 
and in the skirmish where he was so closely 
pursued by the bloodhound, it is said his 
nephew took his standard with his own hand. 
But Randolph was afterwards made prisoner 
by Douglas in Tweeddale, and brought before 
King Robert. Some harsh language was ex- 
changed between the uncle and nephew, and 
the latter was committed for a time to close 
custody. Afterwards, however, they were re- 
conciled, and Randolph was created Earl of 
Moray about 1312. After this period he emi- 
nently distinguished himself, first by the sur- 
prise of Edinburgh Castle, and afterwards by 
many similar enterprises, conducted with equal 
courage and ability. 

Note 41. 

Stirling's towers, 

Beleaguer' d by King Robert's powers ; 
And they took term of truce.— -P. 294. 

When a long train of success, actively im- 
proved by Robert Bruce, had made him master 
of almost all Scotland, Stirling Castle continued 
to hold out. The care of the blockade was 
committed by the king to his brother Edward, 
who concluded a treaty with Sir Philip Mow- 
bray, the governor, that he should surrender 
the fortress, if it were not succoured by the 
King of England before St. John the Baptist's 
day. The king severely blamed his Drother 
for the impolicy of a treaty, which gave time 
to the King of England to advance to the relief 
of the castle with all his assembled forces, and 
obliged himself either to meet them in battle 
with an inferior force, or to retreat with dis- 
honour. "Let all England come," answered 
the reckless Edward; "we will fight them 






THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 



621 



were they more." The consequence was, of 
course, that each kingdom mustered its strength 
for the expected battle ; and as the space 
agreed upon reached from Lent to Midsummer, 
full time was allowed for that purpose. 

Note 42. 

And Cambria, but of late subdued, 
Sent forth her mountain multitude. — 

P. 295. 
Edward the First, with the usual policy of a 
conqueror, employed the Welsh, whom he had 
subdued, to assist him in his Scottish wars, for 
which their habits, as mountaineers, particu- 
larly fitted them. But this policy was not with- 
out its risks. Previous to the battle of Falkirk, 
the Welsh quarrelled with the English men- 
at-arms, and after bloodshed on both parts, 
separated themselves from his army, and the 
feud between them, at so dangerous and criti- 
cal a juncture, was reconciled with difficulty. 
Edward II. followed his father's example in this 
particular, and with no better success. They 
could not be brought to exert themselves in the 
cause of their conquerors. But they had an in- 
different reward for their forbearance. With- 
out arms, and clad only in scanty dresses of 
linen cloth, they appeared naked in the eyes 
even of the Scottish peasantry ; and after the 
rout of Bannockburn, were massacred by them 
in great numbers, as they retired in confusion 
towards their own country. They were under 
command of Sir Maurice de Berkley. 

Note 43. 

And Connoght pour 'd from waste and wood 
Her hundred tribes, whose sceptre rude 
Dark Eth O 'Connor sway 'd. — P. 295. 

There is in the Foedera an invitation to Eth 
O'Connor, chief of the Irish of Connaught, set- 
ting forth that the king was about to move 
against his Scottish rebels, and therefore re- 
questing the attendance of all the force he could 
muster, either commanded by himself in person, 
or by some nobleman of his race. These 
auxiliaries were to be commanded by Richard 
de Burgh, Earl of Ulster. 

Note 44. 

The monarch rode along the van, — P. 297. 

The English vanguard, commanded by the 
Earls of Gloucester and Hereford, came in sight 
of the Scottish army upon the evening of the 
23rd of June. Bruce was then riding upon a 
little palfrey, in front of his foremost line, put- 
ting his host in order. It was then that the 
personal encounter took place betwixt him and 
Sir Henry de Bohun, a gallant English knight, 
the issue of which had a great effect upon the 
spirits of both armies. 



Note 45. 

Responsive from the Scottish host, 
Pipe-clang and bugle-sound were ioss'd.— 

P. 299. 
There is an old tradition, that the well I 
Scottish tune of "Hey, tutti, taitti, 
march at the battle of Bannockburn. 'J h 
Mr. Ritson, no granter of propositions, doubts 
whether the Scots had any martial 
quotes Froissart's account bf each soldier in the 
host bearing a little horn, on which, at the 
onset, they would make such a horrible 
ns if all the devils of hell had been among them. 
He observes, that these horns are the only 
music mentioned by Barbour, and concludes, 
that it must remain a moot point whether 
Bruce's army were cheered by the sound even 
of a solitary bagpipe. — Historical Essay pre- 
fixed to Ritson s Scottish Songs. — It may be 
observed in passing, that the Scottish of this 
period certainly observed some musical cadence, 
even in winding their horns, since Bruce was at 
once recognized by his followers from his mode 
of blowing. See Note 29, p. 282. But the tra- 
dition, true or false, has been the means of 
securing to Scotland one of the finest lyrics in 
the language, the celebrated war-song of Burns, 
— " Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled." 

Note 46. 

See where yon barefoot Abbot stands, 
And blesses them with lifted hands. — P. 299. 

" Maurice, abbot of InchafFray, placing him- 
self on an eminence, celebrated mass in sight of 
the Scottish army. He then passed along the 
front bare-footed, and bearing a crucifix in his 
hands, and exhorting the Scots, in few and 
forcible words, to combat for their rights and 
their liberty. The Scots kneeled down. ' They 
yield,' cried Edward; 'see, they implore 
mercy.' — 'They do,' answered Ingclram de 
Umfraville, ' but not ours. On that field they 
will be victorious, or die.' " — A nuals of Scot- 
land, vol. ii. p. 47. 

Note 47. 

Forth, Marshal, on the peasant foe ! 
We'll tame the terrors of their bow. 

And cut the bow-string loose ! — P. 299. 

The English archers commenced the attack 
with their usual bravery and dexterity. But 
against a force, whose importance he had 
learned by fatal experience, Bruce was pro- 
vided. A small but select body of cavalry 
were detached from the right, under command 
of Sir Robert Keith. They rounded, as I con- 
ceive, the marsh called Milton bog, and, keeping 
the firm ground, charged the left flank and rear 
of the English archers. As the bowmen had no 
spears nor long weapons fit to defend them- 
selves against horse, they were instantly thrown 
into disorder, and spread through the whole 



622 



APPENDIX. 



English army a confusion from which they 
never fairly recovered. 

Although the success of this manoeuvre was 
evident, it is very remarkable that the Scottish 
generals do not appear to have profited by the 
lesson. Almost every subsequent battle which 
they lost against England, was decided by the 
archers, to whom the close and compact array 
of the Scottish phalanx afforded an exposed 
and unresisting mark. The bloody battle of 
Halidoun-hill, fought scarce twenty years after- 
wards, was so completely gained by the archers, 
that the English are said to have lost only one 
knight, one esquire, and a few foot-soldiers. At 
the battle of Neville's Cross, in 1346, where 
David II. was defeated and made prisoner, 
John de Graham, observing the loss which the 
Scots sustained from the English bowmen, 
offered to charge and disperse them, if a hun- 
dred men at arms were put under his command. 
"But, to confess the truth," says Fordun, "he 
could not procure a single horseman for the 
service proposed." Of such little use is ex- 
perience in war, where its results are opposed 
by habit or prejudice. 

Note 48. 

Each braggart churl could boast before, 

Twelve Scottish lives his baldrick bore. — 

P. 300. 

Roger Ascham quotes a similar Scottish pro- 
verb, " whereby they give the whole praise of 
shooting honestly to Englishmen, saying thus, 
' that every English archer beareth under his 
girdle twenty-four Scottes.' Indeed Toxophi- 
lus says before, and truly of the Scottish nation, 
' The Scottes surely be good men of warre in 
theyre owne feates as can be; but as for shoot- 
inge, they can neither use it to any profite, nor 
yet challenge it for any praise.' " — Works 
of Ascham, edited by Bennet, 4to, p. no. 

It is said, I trust incorrectly, by an ancient 
English historian, that the "good Lord James 
of Douglas " dreaded the superiority of the Eng- 
lish archers so much, that when he made any 
of them prisoner, he gave him the option of 
losing the forefinger of his right hand, or his 
right eye, either species of mutilation rendering 
him incapable to use the bow. I have mislaid 
the reference to this singular passage. 

Note 49. 

Down ! down ! in headlong overthrow, 
Horseman and horse, the foremost go. — 

P. 300. 
It is generally alleged by historians, that the 
English men-at-arms fell into the hidden snare 
which Bruce had prepared for them. Barbour 
does not mention the circumstance. According 
to his account, Randolph, seeing the slaughter 
made by the cavalry on the right wing among 
the archers, advanced courageously against the 
main body of the English, and entered into 
close combat with them. Douglas and Stuart, 
who commanded the Scottish centre, led their 
division also to the charge, and the battle be- 



coming general along the whole line, was 
obstinately maintained on both sides for a long 
space of time ; the Scottish archers doing great 
execution among the English men-at-arms, 
after the bowmen of England were dispersed. 

Note 50. 

And steeds that shriek in agony. — P. 300. 

I have been told that this line requires an ex- 
planatory note; and, indeed, those who witness 
the silent patience with which horses submit to 
the most cruel usage, may be permitted to 
doubt, that, in moments of sudden and intoler- 
able anguish, they utter a most melancholy 
cry. Lord Erskine, in a speech made in the 
House of Lords, upon a bill for enforcing 
humanity towards animals, noticed this remark- 
able fact, fn language which I will not mutilate 
by attempting to repeat it. It was my fortune, 
upon one occasion, to hear a horse, in a 
moment of agony, utter a thrilling scream, 
which I still consider the most melancholy 
sound I ever heard. 

Note 51. 

Lord of the Isles, my trust in thee 
Is firm as A ilsa Bock ! 

Rush on with Highland sword and targe, 

I, with my Carrick spearmen cJiarge. — 

P. 301. 

When the engagement between the main 
bodies had lasted some time, Bruce made a 
decisive movement, by bringing up the Scottish 
reserve. It is traditionally said, that at this 
crisis, he addressed the Lord of the Isles in 
a phrase used as a motto by some of his de- 
scendants, " My trust is constant in thee." 
Barbour intimates, that the reserve "assembled 
on one field," that is, on the same line with 
the Scottish forces already engaged ; which 
leads Lord Hailes to conjecture that the Scottish 
ranks must have been much thinned by slaugh- 
ter, since, in that circumscribed ground, there 
was room for the reserve to fall into the line. 
But the advance of the Scottish cavalry must 
have contributed a good deal to form the vacancy 
occupied by the reserve. 

Note 52. 

To arms they flew, — axe, club, or spear, — 

And mimic ensigns high they rear. — P. 302. 

The followers of the Scottish camp observed, 
from the Gillies' Hill in the rear, the impression 
produced upon the English army by the bring- 
ing up of the Scottish reserve, and, prompted 
by the enthusiasm of the moment, or the desire 
of plunder, assumed, in a tumultuary manner, 
such arms as they found nearest, fastened 
sheets to tent-poles and lances, and showed 
themselves like a new army advancing to 
battle. 

The unexpected apparition, of what seemed 
a new army, completed the confusion which 
already prevailed among the English, who fled 
in every direction, and were pursued with 
immense slaughter. 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



623 



THE FIELD OF WATERLOO. 



Note i. 

The peasant, at his labour blithe, 
Plies the hook" d staff and shortened scythe. — 
P. 305- 
The reaper in Flanders carries in his left 
hand a stick with an iron hook, with which he 
collects as much grain as he can cut at one 
sweep with a short scythe, which he holds in 
his right hand. They carry on this double 
process with great spirit and dexterity. 

Note 2. 

Pale Brussels! then ivhat thoughts were thine. 

P. 306. 

It was affirmed by the prisoners of war, that 

Bonaparte had promised his army, in case of 

victory, twenty-four hours' plunder of the city 

of Brussels. 

Note 3. 

" On ! On ! " was still his stern exclaim. — 
P. 306. 

The characteristic' obstinacy of Napoleon 
was never more fully displayed than in what 
we. may be permitted to hope will prove the 
last of his fields. He would listen to no ad- 
vice, and allow of no obstacles. An eye-witness 
has given the following account of his demean- 
our towards the end of the action : — 

" It was near seven o'clock ; Bonaparte, who 
till then had remained upon the ridge of the 
hill whence he could best behold what passed, 
contemplated with a stern countenance the 
scene of this horrible slaughter. The more 
that obstacles seemed to multiply, the more 
his obstinacy seemed to increase. He became 
indignant at these unforeseen difficulties ; and, 
far from fearing to push to extremities an army 
whose confidence in him was boundless, he 
ceased not to pour down fresh troops, and to 
give orders to march forward — to charge with 
the bayonet — to carry by storm. He was re- 
peatedly informed, from different points, that 
the day went against him, and that the troops 
seemed to be disordered ; to which he only 
replied, — ' En avant I En avant I ' 

" One general sent to inform the Emperor 
that he was in a position which he could not 
maintain, because it was commanded by a bat- 
tery, and requested to know, at the same time, 
in what way he should protect his division 
from the murderous fire of the English artil- 
lery. ' Let him storm the battery," replied 
Bonaparte, and turned his back on the aide-de- 
camp who brought the message." — Relation 
de la Bataille de Mout-St.-Jean. Par wi 
Te7noin Oculaire. Paris, 1815, 8vo, p. 51. 



Note 4. 

t. The fate their leader shunn'd to share.— 

P. 306. 
It has been reported that Bonaparte charged 
at the head of his guards, at the last period of 
this dreadful conflict. This, however, is not 
accurate. He came down indeed to a hollow 
part of the high road, leading to Chark-roi, 
within less than a quarter of a mile of the farm 
of La Haye Sainte, one of the poiiu 
fiercely disputed. Here he harangued the 
guards, and informed them that his preceding 
operations had destroyed the British infantry 
and cavalry, and that they had only to support 
the fire of the artillery, which they were to at- 
tack with the bayonet. This exhortation was 
received with shouts of Vive I' Empereur, 
which were heard over all our line, and led to 
an idea that Napoleon was charging in person. 
But the guards were led on by Ney ; nor did 
Bonaparte approach nearer the scene of action 
than the spot already mentioned, which the 
rising banks on each side rendered secure from 
all such balls as did not come in a straight line. 
He witnessed the earlier part of the battle from 
places yet more remote, particularly from an 
observatory which had been placed there by 
the King of the Netherlands, some weeks be- 
fore, for the purpose of surveying the country.* 
It is not meant to infer from these particulars 
that Napoleon showed, on that memorable 
occasion, the least deficiency in personal cour- 
age ; on the contrary, he evinced the greatest 
composure and presence of mind during the 
whole action. But it is no less true that report 
has erred in ascribing to him any desperate 
efforts of valour for recovery of the battle ; and 
it is remarkable, that during the whole carnage, 
none of his suite were either killed or wounded, 
whereas scarcely one of the Duke of Welling- 
ton's personal attendants escaped unhurt. 

Note 5. 

England shall tell the fight.— V. 306. 

In riding up to a regiment which was hard 
pressed,! the Duke called to the men, "Sol- 
diers, we must never be beat, — what will they 
say in England?" It is needless to say how 
this appeal was answered. 



* The mistakes concerning this observatory 
have been mutual. The English supposed it 
was erected for the use of Bonaparte: and a 
French writer affirms it was constructed by the 
Duke of Wellington. 

t The 95th. The Duke's words were — 
" Stand fast, 95th — what will they say in Eng- 
land ? " 



624 



APPENDIX. 



Note 6. 

As />lies the smith his clanging trade. — P. 307. 

A private soldier of the 95th regiment com- 
pared the sound which took place immediately 
upon the British cavalry mingling with those 
of" the enemy, to "a thousand tinkers at work 
mending pots and kettles." 

Note 7. 

TJte British shock of levelVd steel. — P. ^07. 

No persuasion or authority could prevail upon 
the French troops to stand the shock of the 
bayonet. The Imperial Guards, in particular, 
hardly stood till the British were within thirty 
yards of them, although the French author, 
already quoted, has put into their mouths the 
magnanimous sentiment, " The Guards never 
yield — the)' die." The same author has covered 
the plateau, or eminence, of St. Jean, which 
formed the British position, with redoubts and 
retrenchments which never had an existence. 
As the narrative, which is in many respects 
curious, was written by an eye-witness, he was 
probably deceived by the appearance of a road 
and ditch which run along part of the hill. It 
may be also mentioned, in criticizing this work, 
that the writer mentions the Chateau of Hougo- 
mont to have been carried by the French, al- 
though it was resolutely and successfully de- 
fended during the whole action. The enemy, 
indeed, possessed themselves of the wood by 
which it is surrounded, and at length set fire to 
the house itself ; but the British (a detachment 
of the Guards, under the command of Colonel 
Macdonnell, and afterwards of Colonel Home) 
made good the garden, and thus preserved, by 
their desperate resistance, tbe post which 
covered the return of the Duke of Wellington's 
right flank. 



* Note 8. 

What bright careers 'tzvas thine to close.— 

P. 309. 

Sir Thomas Picton, Sir William Ponsonby, 

Sir William de Lancy, and numberless gallant 

officers. 

Note 9, 

Laurels from the hand of Death. — P. 309. 

Colonel Sir William de Lancy had married 
the beautiful Miss Hall only two months be- 
fore the battle of Waterloo. 

Note 10. 
Gallant Miller's failing eye. — P. 309. 
Colonel Miller of the Guards, when lying 
mortally wounded in the attack on the Bois de 
Bossa, desired to see once more the colours of 
his regiment. They were waved about his head, 
and he died declaring that he was satisfied. 

Note ii. 

A?id Cameron, in the shock of steel. — P. 309. 

Colonel Cameron fell at Quatre Bras, head- 
ing a charge of the 92nd Highlanders. 

Note 12. 
And generous Gordon. — P. 309. 
"Generous Gordon " — brother to the Earl of 
Aberdeen — who fell by the side of the Duke in 
the heat of the action. 

Note 13. 
Fair Hougomont. — P. 309. 
" Hougomont "— a chateau with a garden 
and wood round it. A post of great import- 
ance, valiantly held by the Guards during the 
battle. 



GLENFINLAS. 



Note i. 

How blazed Lord Ronald 's beltane-tree. — 
P. 343- 
The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the 
1st of May, in compliance with a custom de- 
rived from the Pagan times, are termed The 
Beltafie-tree. It is a festival celebrated with 
various superstitious rites, both in the north of 
Scotland and in Wales. 



Note 2. 

The seer's prophetic spirit found.— -P '. 343. 

I can only describe the second sight, by 
adopting Dr. Johnson's definition, who calls it 
" An impression, either by the mind upon the 
eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which 
things distant and future are perceived and seen 
as if they were present." To which I would 
only add, that the spectral appearances, thus 



GLENFINLAS. 



625 



presented, usually presage misfortune ; that 
the faculty is painful to those who suppose 
they possess it ; and that they usually acquire 
it while themselves under the pressure of 
melancholy. 

Note 3. 

Will good St, Oran's rule prevail ? — P. 344. 

St. Oran was a friend and follower of St. 
Columba, and was buried at Icolmkill. His 
pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. 
According to the legend, he consented to be 
buried alive, in order to propitiate certain 
demons of the soil, who obstructed the at- 
tempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba 
caused the body of his friend to be dug up, 
after three days had elapsed ; when Oran, to 
the horror and scandal of the assistants, de- 
clared that there was neither a God, a judg- 
ment, nor a future state ! He had no time to 
make further discoveries, for Columba caused 
the earth once more to be shovelled over him 
with the utmost despatch. The chapel, how- 
ever, and the cemetery, was called Relig 
Ourau; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, 
no female was admitted to pay her devotions, 
or be buried in that place. This is the rule 
alluded to in the poem. 

Note 4. 

And thrice St. Fillan's powerful prayer. — 
P. 345- 

St. Fillan has given his name to many 
chapels, holy fountains, &c, in Scotland. He 
was, according to Camerarius, an Abbot of 
Pittenweem, in Fife ; from which situation he 
retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glen- 
urchy, a. D. 649. While engaged in transcrib- 
ing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed 
to send forth such a splendour, as to afford 



light to that with which he wrote ; a miracle 
which saved many candles to the convent, as 
St. Fillan used to spend whole nights in that 
exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated 
to this saint, who gave his name tu KilfiUan, in 
Renfrew, and St. Phillans, or Forgend, in 
Lesley, lib. 7, tells us, that Robert the Bruce 
was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and lumin- 
ous arm, which he enclosed in a silver shrine, 
and had it carried at the head of his army. 
Previous to the Battle of Bannockburn, the 
king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted 
the relic, and deposited it in a place of security, 
lest it should fall into the hands of the English. 
But, lo ! while Robert was addressing his 
prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to 
open and '.shut suddenly ; and, on inspection, 
the saint was found to have himself deposited 
his arm in the shrine as an assurance of victory. 
Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce 
little needed that the arm of St. Fillan should 
assist his own, he dedicated to him, in grati- 
tude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay. 

In the Scots Magazine for July, i3o2, there 
is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 
nth July, 1487, by which James III. confirms, 
to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfilkm, 
in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and en- 
joyment of a relic of St. Fillan, being appar- 
ently the head of a pastoral staff called the 
Quegrich, which he and his predecessors are 
said to have possessed since the days of Robert 
Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure 
diseases, this document is probably the most 
ancient patent ever granted for a quack medi- 
cine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom 
it is furnished, farther observes, that additional 
particulars, concerning St. Fillan, are to be 
found in Bellenden's Boece, Book 4, folio 
ccxiii., and in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, 
1772, pp. ii, 15. 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN. 



Note i. 
battle of ancrart moor. — p. 346. 

Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during 
the year 1544, committed the most dreadful 
ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling 
most of the inhabitants, and especially the men 
of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the 
King of England. Upon the 17th November, 
in that year, the sum total of their depreda- 
tions stood thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord 
Evers : — 



Towns, towers, barnekynes, paryshc churches, 

bastill houses, burned and destroyed, 192 

Scots slain .... . 403 

Prisoners taken . . . . 816 

Nolt (cattle) 10.3S6 

Shepe 12,492 

Nags and geldings .... 1296 

Gayt 200 

Bolls of corn . . . . 850 

Insight gear, &c. (furniture) an incalculable 
quantity. 

Mukdin's Slate Papers, vol. i. p. 51. 
40 



6 2 6 



APPENDIX. 



For these services Sir Ralph Evers was made 
a Lord of Parliament. See a strain of exult- 
ing congratulation upon his promotion poured 
forth by some contemporary minstrel, in vol. i. 
p. 417.. 

The King of England had promised to these 
two barons a feudal grant of the country, which 
they had thus reduced to a desert ; upon hear- 
ing which, Archibald Douglas, the seventh 
earl of Angus, is said to have sworn to write 
the deed of investiture upon their skins, with 
sharp pens and bloody ink, in resentment for 
their having defaced the tombs of his ancestors 
at Melrose. — Godscroft. In 1545, Lord Evers 
and Latoun again entered Scotland, with an 
army consisting of 3000 mercenaries, 1500 Eng- 
lish Borderers, and 700 assured Scottish men, 
chiefly Armstrongs, Turnbulls, and other 
broken clans. In this second incursion, the 
English generals even exceeded their former 
cruelty. Evers burned the tower of Broom- 
house, with its lady (a noble and aged woman, 
says Lesley), and her whole family. The 
English penetrated as far as Melrose, which 
they had destroyed last year, and which they 
now again pillaged. As they returned towards 
Jedburgh, they were followed by Angus at the 
head of 1000 horse, who was shortly after 
joined by the famous Norman Lesley, with a 
body of Fife men. The English being proba- 
bly unwilling to' cross the Teviot while the 
Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon Ancram 
Moor, above the village of that name ; and the 
Scottish general was deliberating whether to 
advance or retire, when Sir Walter Scott* of 
Buccleuch came up at full speed with a small 
but chosen body of his retainers, the rest of 
whom were near at hand. By the advice of 
this experienced warrior (to whose conduct 
Pitscottie and Buchanan ascribe the success of 
the engagement), Angus withdrew from the 
height which he occupied, and drew up his 
forces behind it, upon a piece of low flat ground 
called Panier-heugh, or Paniel-heugh. The 
spare horses being sent to an eminence in their 
rear, appeared to the English to be the main 
body of the Scots in the act of flight. Under 
this persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried pre- 

* The Editor has found no instance upon re- 
cord of this family having taken assurance with 
England. Hence, they usually suffered dread- 
fully from the English forays. In August, 
1544 (the year preceding the battle), the whole 
lands belonging to Buccleuch, in West Teviot- 
dale, were harried by Evers ; the outworks, or 
barmkin, of the tower of Branxholm burned ; 
eight Scots slain, thirty made prisoners, and 
an immense prey of horses, cattle , and sheep 
carried off. The lands upon Kale Water, be- 
longing to the same chieftain, were also plun- 
dered, and much spoil obtained ; " 30 Scots 
slain, and the Moss Tower (a fortress near Esk- 
ford) smo/ed verey sore. Thus Buccleuch had 
a long account to settle at Ancram Moor. — 
Muedin's State Papers, pp. 45, 46. 



cipitately forward, and having ascended the 
hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no 
less dismayed than astonished to find the 
phalanx of Scottish spearmen drawn up in firm 
array upon the flat ground below. The Scots, 
in their turn became the assailants. A heron, 
roused from the marshes by the tumult, soared 
away betwixt the encountering armies : " O ! " 
exclaimed Angus, " that I had here my white 
goss-hawk, that we might all yoke at once !" 
— GODSCROFT. The English breathless and fa- 
tigued, having the setting sun and wind full in 
their faces, were unable to withstand the reso- 
lute and desperate charge of the Scottish 
lances. No sooner had they begun to waver, 
than their own allies, the assured Borderers, 
who had been waiting the event, threw aside 
their red crosses, and, joining their country- 
men, made a most merciless slaughter among 
the English fugitives, the pursuers calling upon 
each other to "remember Broomhouse ! " — 
Lesley, p. 478. 

In the battle fell Lord Evers, and his son, 
together with Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 Eng- 
lishmen, many of whom were persons of rank. 
A thousand prisoners were taken. Among 
these was a patriotic alderman of London, Read 
by name, who, having contumaciously refused 
to pay his portion of a benevolence, demanded 
from the city by Henry VIII., was sent by 
royal authority to serve against the Scots. 
These, at settling his ransom, he found still 
more exorbitant in their exactions than the 
monarch. — Redpath's Border History, p. 563. 
Evers was much regretted by King Henry, 
who swore to avtnge his death upon Angus, 
against whom he conceived himself to have par- 
ticular grounds of resentment, on account of 
favours received by the earl at his hands. The 
answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas : " Is 
our brother-in-law offended," t said he, "that 
I, as a good Scotsman, have avenged my 
ravaged country, and the defaced tombs of my 
ancestors, upon Ralph Evers? They were 
better men than he, and I was bound to do no 
less. And will he take my life for that? Little 
knows King Henry the skirts of Kirnetable : X 
I can keep myself there against all his English 
host." — Godscroft . 

Such was the noted battle of Ancram Moor. 
The spot on which it was fought, is called 
Lilyard's Edge, from an Amazonian Scottish 
woman of that name, who is reported, by tra- 
dition, to have distinguished herself in the 
same manner as Squire Witherington.§ The 
old people point out her monument, now broken 
and defaced. The inscription is said to have 
been legible within this century, and to have 
run thus : 



t Angus had married the widow of James 
IV., sister to King Henry VIII. 

J Kirnetable, now called Cairntable, is a 
mountainous tract at the head of Douglasdale. 

§ See Chevy Chase. 



THE EVE OF ST. JOHN., 



627 



" Fair maiden Lylliard lies under this stane, 
Little was her stature, but great was her fame ; 
Upon the English louns she laid mony thumps, 
And, when her legs were cutted off, she 
' fought upon her stumps." 

Vide Account oftlie Parish of Melrose. 

It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that an 
ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant of 
Scottish lands from an English monarch. " I 
have seen," says the historian, "under the 
broad-seale of the said King Edward I., a 
manor called Ketnes, in the county of Forfare, 
in Scotland, and ncere the furthest part of the 
same nation northward, given to John Ure and 
his heires, ancestor to the Lord Ure that now is, 
for his service done in these partes, with market, 
&C, dated at Lanercost, the 20th day of Oc- 
tober, anno regis 34." — Stowe's Annals, p. 
210. This grant, like that of Henry, must have 
been dangerous to the receiver. 

Note 2. 

A covering on her %vt ist. — P. 349. 

There is an old and well-known Irish tradi- 
tion that the bodies of certain spirits and devils 
are scorchingly hot, so that they leave upon 
anything they touch an impress as if of red-hot 
iron. It is related of one of Melancthon's re- 
lations, that a devil'seized hold of her hand, 
which bore the mark of a burn to her dying 
day. The incident in the poem is of a similar 
nature— the ghost's hands " scorch'd like a fiery 
brand," leaving»a burning impress on the table 
and the lady's wrist. Another class of fiends 
are reported to be icy cold, and to freeze the 
skin of any one with whom they come in con- 
tact. 



Note 3. 
That nun ivho ne'er beholds the day. — P. 349. 

The circumstance of the nun, "who never 
saw the day," is not entirely imaginary, 
fifty years ago, an unfortunate female wanderer 
took up her residence in a dark vault, among 
the ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, which, during 
the day, she never quitted. When night fell, 
she issued from this miserable habitation, and 
went to the house of Mr. Haliburton of New- 
mains, the Editor's great-grandfather, or to 
that of Mr. Erskine of Sheilfield, two gentle- 
men of the neighbourhood. From their charity 
she obtained such necessaries as she could be 
prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each 
night, she lighted her candle, and returned to 
her vault, assuring her friendly neighbours, 
that, during her absence, her habitation was 
arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the 
uncouth name of Fat lips ; describing him as a 
little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with 
which he trampled the clay floor of the vault, 
to dispel the damps. This circumstance caused 
her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with 
compassion, as deranged in her understanding ; 
and, by the vulgar, with some degree of terror. 
The cause of her adopting this extraordinary 
mode of life she would never explain. It was, 
however, believed to have been occasioned by 
a vow, that, during the absence of a man to 
whom she was attached, she would never look 
upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He 
fell during the civil war of 1745-6, and she never 
more would behold the light of day. 

The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this 
unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still 
by the name of the supernatural being, with 
which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed 
imagination, and few of the neighbouring peas- 
ants dare enter it by night. 



CADYOW CASTLE. 



Note i. 
« sound the pryse /— P '. 35 t. 

Pryse.— The note blown at the death of the 
game. — In Caledonia olim frequeus crat syl- 
•vestris quidam bos, nunc vero rarior, qui, 
colore candidissimo, j 'ttbant densam et demis- 
sam inslar leouis gestat, truculeulus ac ferns 
ab humano genere abhorrens, nt quo'cunque 
homines vcl mauibus contrectarint, vel halitu 
perflaverint , ab iis multos post dies omnino 
abstiuuerunt. Ad hoc tanta audacia huicbovi 
indita erat, nt non solum irritatus equites 
furenter prostemeret, sed ?ie tautillum laces- 



situs onnics promiscue homines cornibus ac 
■ungulis petcrit; ac cauum, qui apud uosfcro- 
cissimi sunt, impetus plane contemnerct. Ejus 
carries cartilaginoscc, sed saporis snavissimi. 
Erat is olim per illam vastissiniam Calcdonue 
sylvam frequens, sed humana ingluvic jam 
assuiuptus tribus tantum locis est reliquus, 
Strivilyigii. Cnmbernaldia;, et A'iucaruiu: — 
LesL/ELS, Scotise Descriptio, p. 13. 

Note 2. 
Stem Cla?td replied. —P. 351. 
Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the 
Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator of 



628 



APPENDIX. 



the Abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part 
during the troubles of Queen Mary's reign, and 
remained unalterably attached to the cause of 
that unfortunate princess. He led the van of 
her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and 
was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stir- 
ling, which had so nearly given complete suc- 
cess to the Queen's faction. He was ancestor 
of the present Marquis of Abercorn. 

Note 3. 

W oodhouselee . — P. 351. 

This barony, stretching along the banks of 
the Esk, near Auchendinny, belonged to Both- 
wellhaugh, in right of his wife. The ruins of 
the mansion, from whence she was expelled 
in the brutal manner which occasioned her 
death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen 
beside the river. Popular report tenants them 
with the restless ghost of the Lady Bothwell- 
haugh ; whom, however, it confounds with Lady 
Anne Bothwell, whose Lament is so popular. 
This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a 
part of the stones of the ancient edifice having 
been employed in building or repairing the pre- 
sent Woodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of 
her privilege to haunt that house also ; and, even 
of very late years, has excited considerable dis- 
turbance and terror among the domestics. This 
is a more remarkable vindication of the rights 
of ghosts as the present Woodhouselee, which 
gives his title to the Honourable Alexander 
Fraser Tytler, a senator of the College of 
Justice, is situated on the slope of the Pent- 
land hills, distant at least four miles from her 
proper abode. She always appears in white, 
and with her child in her arms. 

Note 4. 

Drives to the leap his Jaded steed. — P. 351. 

Birrel informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being 
closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had 
failed him, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke 
his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap 
a very brode stanke [i. e. ditch], by whilk means 
he escapit, and gat away from all the rest of the 
horses." — Birrel's Diary, p. 18. 

Note 5. 
From the wild Border's humbled side. — P. 351. 

Murray's death took place shortly after an 
expedition to the Borders ; which is thus com- 
memorated by the author of his Elegy : 

"So having stablischt all things in this sort, 
To Liddisdaill agane he did resort, 
Throw Ewisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills 

rode he, 
And also lay three nights in Cannabie, 
Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris 

before, 
Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir sa sair ; 



And, that they suld na mair thair thift allege, 
Threescore and twelf he brocht of thame in 

pledge, 
Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep 

ordour ; 
Then mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the 

Border." 

Scottish Poems, 16th century, p. 232. 

Note 6. 

With hackbut bent. — P. 352. 

Hackbut bent— Gun cock'd. The carbine, 
with which the Regent was shot, is preserved 
at Hamilton Palace. It is a brass piece, of a 
middling length, very small in the bore, and, 
what is rather extraordinary, appears to have 
been rifled or indented in the barrel. It had a 
matchlock, for which a modern firelock has been 
injudiciously substituted. 

Note 7. 
The wild Macfarlane' s plaided clan. — P. 352. 
This clan of Lennox Highlanders were at- 
tached to the Regent Murray. Holinshed, 
speaking of the battle of Langside, says, " In 
this batayle the vallancie of an Heiland gentle- 
man, named Macfarlane, stood the Regent's 
part in great steede ; for, in the hottest brunte 
of the fighte, he came up with two hundred 
of his friendes and countrymen, and so manfully 
gave in upon the flankesofthe Queen's people, 
that he was a great cause of the disordering of 
them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, 
as I have heard, condemned to die, for some 
outrage by him committed, and obtayning par- 
don through suyte of the Countess of Murray, 
he recompensed that clemencie by this piece of 
service now at this batayle." Calderwood's 
account is less favourable to the Macfarlanes. 
He states that " Macfarlane, with his High- 
landmen, fled from the wing where they were 
set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to 
them in the Regent's battle, said, ' Let them go ! 
I shall fill their place better : ' and so, stepping 
forward, with a company of fresh men, charged 
the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with 
long weapons, so that they were driven back 
by force, being before almost overthrown by 
the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so 
were turned to flight." — Calderwood's MS. 
apud Keith, p. 80. Melville mentions the 
flight of the vanguard, but states it to have 
been commanded by Morton, and composed 
chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew. 

Note 8. 

Glencaim and stout Parkhead were nigh. — 

P. 352. 

The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent 

of the Regent. George Douglas of Parkhead 

was a natural brother,, of the Earl of Morton, 

whose horse was killed by the same ball by 

which Murray fell. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 






Note 9. 

haggard Lindcsay's iron eye, 

That saw /air Mary weep in vain. — P. 352. 
Lord Lindsay of the Eyres was the most 
ferocious and brutal of the Regent's faction, 
and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's 
signature to the deed of resignation presented 
to her in Lochleven castle. He discharged his 
commission with the most savage rigour; and 
it is even said, that when the weeping captive, 
in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the 
fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp 
of his iron glove. 



Note 10. 
So close the minions' crowded nigh. — P. 352. 
Not only had the Regent notice of the in- 
tended attempt upon his life, but even of the 
very house from which it was threatened. Willi 
that infatuation at which men wonder, 
such events have happened, he deemed it would 
be a sufficient precaution to ride brisk i 
the dangerous spot. But even this v 
vented by the crowd: so that 'Bothwellhaugh 
had time to take a deliberate aim. — Si' 
woode, p. 233. Buchanan. 



THE GRAY BROTHER. 



Note i. 

By blast of bugle free. — P. 354. 

The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir 
George Clerk, Bart., is held by a singular 
tenure ; the proprietor being bound to sit upon 
a large rocky fragment called the Buckstane, 
and wind three blasts of a horn, when the King 
shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near 
Edinburgh. Hence the family have adopted as 
their crest a demi-forester proper, winding a 
horn, with the motto, Free for a Blast. The 
beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much 
admired, both on account of the architecture and 
surrounding scenery. 

Note 2. 

To AucJiendimrfs hazel shade. — P. 354. 

Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske below 
Pennycuik, the present residence of the in- 
genious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the 
Man of Feeling, &>c. Edition 1803. 

Note 3. 

M^elville's bcechy grove. — P. 354. 

Melville Castle, the seat of the Right Honour- 
able Lord Melville, to whom it gives the title 
of Viscount, is delightfully situated upon the 
Eske, near Lasswade. 



Note 4. 

Roslin s rocky glen.— -P. 354. 

The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial re- 
sidence of the ancient family of St. Clair. The 
Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preserv- 
ation, with the romantic and woody dell in 
which they are situated, belong to the Right 
Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the represent- 
ative of the former Lords of Roslin. 

Note 5. 
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love. — P. 354. 

The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged 
of old to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now 
the residence of the noble family of Bi.ccleuch. 
The park extends along the Eske, which is 
there joined by its sister stream of the same 
name. 

Note 6. 
Classic Hazuthomdcn.—V. 354. 

Hawthornden, the residence of the poet 
Drummond. A house of more modem date is 
enclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient 
castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice 
upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by 
winding caves, which in former times were a 
refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. 
Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who 
journeyed from London on foot in order to visit 
him. 



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